


Fortune's Just a One-Night Stand

by elrhiarhodan



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Case Fic, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Emotional Trauma, First Time, M/M, Nipple Clamps, Nipple Play, Prositution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, fuck-or-die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 06:00:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 54,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In some alternate universe, Peter Burke is a wealthy and bored financial advisor and discovers that one of his clients, Elizabeth Mitchell, is using her event planning business to launder profits from an escort service catering to the wealthy gay elite in New York. Instead of turning her in, he asks her to hire him. Neal Caffrey has been recently released from a four-year sentence for bond forgery and learns that his girlfriend, Kate has married his old boyfriend, Matthew Keller and they’ve taken off for parts unknown. Determined not to return to prison, Neal turns to his friend, Mozzie, for help. Moz knows a guy – or in this case – a gal who’s willing to hire Neal. As an escort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fortune's Just a One-Night Stand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [traintracks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/traintracks/gifts).



> Beta Credit: jrosemary, theatregirl7299, and hoosierbitch, thank you!
> 
> Cover Art by Kanarek13.

_This wasn’t supposed to be his life._

Peter sat down at his dining room table, loosened the silk bow tie and the first stud on his collar. He rolled his head back and forth, wincing as the joints popped. The motion did nothing to ease the tight muscles or the incipient headache.

Nor would the two fingers of scotch he just poured. 

Peter gazed into the amber liquid, backlit by the streetlight pouring in from the window. Normally a beer drinker, tonight his mood called for scotch. Johnnie Walker Blue Label – a gift from a very satisfied client – but not the kind of client he once took pride in having. 

Harvard was more than a half a lifetime ago. So was his stint at Coopers. At Arthur Andersen. As an internal auditor at Drexel, a financial consultant at Lehman Brothers. His professional resume was a laundry list of companies that had been killed by their own greed and mismanagement. 

For a few years, Peter had done the consulting thing, going from job to job as a hired gun before striking out on his own. It wasn’t the money – he had plenty of that. It was to keep the boredom at bay, except that the work was as satisfying as a fast food meal. And yet, he probably would have kept on with it forever, if it wasn’t for Elizabeth Mitchell.

He didn’t normally do corporate taxes, and especially not for small businesses like hers, but it was a favor for a friend of a friend. Going over her accounts, her bank statements, Peter discovered something he was better off not knowing. Her company, a highly successful event planning business, shouldn’t have had the cash flow that it did. Everything was itemized and traceable, but something was off. He dug through a few layers and discovered Elizabeth’s second, significantly less legitimate business.

She was running an escort service.

Technically, there was nothing illegal about it. When he confronted her, she made it clear that no one was soliciting for sex, all payments that were made to “Mitchell Premier Events” were for non-sexual companionship, and if anything went on after the “date” was over, that wasn’t her responsibility.

Peter didn’t know what to do. Running the money from the escort service through the event planning business was dodgy, but not necessarily illegal, since taxes were paid and her “consultants” were issued 1099 statements at the end of the year. It was all just a little crazy.

In a moment of madness (or maybe loneliness, and quite possibly boredom), Peter asked a question he would forever regret.

_“Do you hire men?”_

_Elizabeth grinned and the hair stood up on the back of his neck. He never thought it was possible for such a beautiful woman to look so much like a shark._

_“Of course. Actually, I specialize in providing male companionship for the more discerning of my clients. Who are all male.” She looked at him, waiting for his demurral, his retraction. But he surprised her._

_“I suppose I’m too old for your clientele.” Peter hated how pathetic he sounded._

_Elizabeth ( _call me “El”_ ) walked around him, patting his chest and arms through his off the rack Brooks Brothers suit. He yelped when she squeezed his ass. “Age can be an asset. I have several clients who prefer a more seasoned companion. Frankly – I think they are the smarter ones. A fifty year-old executive with a date half his age screams desperation.”_

_Peter blinked. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”_

_“You’ll need to make a few investments.”_

_“Huh?”_

_“In your wardrobe. You can’t wear this.” She picked at his suit jacket with distaste. “It doesn’t fit properly, it’s at least five years old and it’s frankly ugly.”_

_Peter shrugged. “I’m an accountant and financial advisor. I don’t need to wear Armani to do your books.”_

_“I understand that, but when you’re working for me, you’re going to be selling a fantasy and that fantasy isn’t a CPA with a stained tie and a pocket full of leaky pens. If you need it, I can front you the money for some new clothes, and we’ll come to an arrangement for paying me back.”_

_“I don’t need your money.” Peter didn’t like the idea of being in hock to Elizabeth Mitchell one bit – she was going to end up owning his soul if he wasn’t careful. “I have plenty of my own.”_

_That was true – though all of his employers went belly-up, he was paid well while they were solvent and he lived simply, frugally. Not to mention the small fortune his father left to him. He didn’t _need_ to do this._

_“Good – then set aside about ten thousand for a new wardrobe. I promise you’ll make it back in less than six months.”_

_Peter raised an eyebrow at that. “You really think so?”_

_“Hon – you’re gorgeous and you’re going to make us both a bundle.”_

That was over three years ago.

Elizabeth was right. It didn’t take long before he was one of her most sought after employees. He worked too many weekends and at least three weeknights, sometimes more. His clientele was varied – busy executives looking for an evening’s companionship, older society types who wanted someone to parade around like a prized show horse. There were always younger men, and they were often the least enjoyable of his clients. They didn’t really want an evening’s companionship; they were looking for thrills – a good fuck and little more. It always puzzled Peter why young and wealthy men would hire outcall, when they could get what they wanted for little more than a few drinks and a cover charge at some trendy nightclub. But maybe that was too much of an effort. Regardless, it was all part of the job, and Peter still took pride in his work. 

His nights consisted of parties and dinners. He went to the opera and baseball games, gallery openings and concerts. He was kind and intelligent, witty and subtle – the perfect escort. And afterwards, he closed his eyes and did what he was paid for – he fucked and was fucked and most of the time, he didn’t have to pretend that he enjoyed it.

Sitting at his dining room table, still dressed in a custom-fitted tuxedo, Peter contemplated the scotch, his headache and his life. It wasn’t so terrible.

_Just keeping telling yourself that, Burke. Maybe you’ll start believing it._

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Early October**

When Neal Caffrey walked out the front gate of Sing-Sing, he had little in the way of earthly possessions: the clothes on his back, a train ticket to Manhattan and the determination to never go back to prison.

His stash, such as it was, was mostly inaccessible at the moment. There was plenty of cash in safety deposit boxes in Zurich and Luxembourg. Small pieces of extremely valuable art, as well as diamond solitaire ring concealed on bronze statue in a city park could set him up for life, but selling any of that would raise too many red flags.

It was better to lay low, get the feel of things, find some legitimate work before making any decisions.

The FBI knew he was out and it wouldn’t take long before they’d start knocking on his door for every white collar crime and art theft committed in their precincts. Neal didn’t want to give the Feebs any reason to look at him. Not that he disliked Agent Diana Berrigan, (in truth, he admired her) it was just that he’d prefer to stay off her radar as long as possible.

It was a slow walk from the prison to the train station, but pleasant. The air was crisp and the sky infinitely blue – the way a New York sky can only get in early October. Neal enjoyed the fall foliage – the colors, the scents, the taste of the decay like it was a fine wine.

“You’re looking good for a man who just spent four years as a guest of the Feds.” Mozzie appeared out of nowhere, which was typical of his old friend.

“And you’re not looking so bad yourself. You’ve lost the beard.” Neal gestured at his chin.

“Yeah – some things weren’t meant to be.”

“Took you long enough.”

The Metro-North station in Ossining was vintage Westchester, something out of an old movie maybe, with a brick and shingle ticket office and an open platform. The southbound side was accessible by a walkover, and both men were silent as they climbed the stairs. Neal paused on the overpass, looking out at the open vista – the sluggish waters of the Hudson and the gently rising foothills of the lower end of the Catskills. He breathed deep, the taste of freedom was heady.

“Come on, man. The train’s coming.”

Moz was right. The blue and silver commuter train was chugging up the rails and they jogged down the steps, arriving on the platform just as the doors opened.

The mid-afternoon train was nearly empty and they took a pair of seats in the back of the car, by an empty conductor’s booth.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Any word on Kate?”

“Neal …”

“You’ve heard something. What?”

“She’s …” Mozzie sighed and Neal knew it was going to be bad.

“She’s what?”

“She’s married, Neal. She got hitched about a year ago.”

“To Adler?” Neal was skeptical. Adler’s tastes didn’t run that way, but he might have needed a beard.

“No, to Matthew Keller, of all people.”

“Keller? That sociopath?”

“Yeah – I found it hard to believe, but it’s true. And it’s kind of funny that you call him that, considering your own past relationship with him.” Moz pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket and handed it to him. 

Neal unfolded it, almost afraid to see what it said. It was a copy of a New York Times article, one of those wedding announcements that ran in the Sunday Style section. 

_“Katherine Moreau and Matthew Keller wed. The bride, daughter of the noted artist, Robert Moreau and the late Georgina Winston Moreau, of New York and Palm Springs, married Mr. Matthew Keller, an acquisitions consultant for several major museums in Great Britain.”_

That was almost funny. Neal scoffed, “Acquisitions consultant – that’s what they’re calling it these days?” 

“I don’t know what she sees in him.” Thankfully Moz didn’t wonder out loud what Neal once saw in Keller, or in Kate.

“Whatever it is, she likes it enough to marry it.” Neal crumpled the paper and handed it back to Moz. “It’s over, it’s done. I spent three years of my life trying to prove myself to her, spent four years in prison because of her, trying to stay sane and alive. It’s time to move on.” Neal actually believed those words – they rang true in his head. Whatever was there between him and Kate was gone, or maybe it never was. 

Light flickered through the dirty windows as train sped alongside the Hudson River. Neal tipped his head back and enjoyed the rocking motion of the carriage. The feeling of freedom, of controlled flight increased with every clack of the wheels.

“What are you going to do?” Moz interrupted his reverie.

“Don’t know. It’s going to be hard. I’m going to need an income. Tapping my reserves at this point isn’t a good idea. They may be watched.”

“Don’t worry about that, _mon frère,_ I’ve got some ideas.”

“Moz – “

“I know – you’ve gone straight. You’re done with the life.”

Neal sighed, that was true. Mostly. He knew the odds of making a decent life for himself without dipping into his ill-gotten stash were slim. Being a convicted felon limited his opportunities for gainful, and more important, meaningful employment. “What have you got?”

“How do you feel about … catering?”

“Huh?”

“I’ve got a friend, she runs an event planning service.”

“You got me a job as a waiter?”

“Well, not precisely.”

“Moz, stop being so cryptic.”

“She’s got another business. One that provides a more personal service, shall we say.”

The light went on. “Prostitution?”

“Shh, not so loud. And it’s not prostitution – it’s an escort service.”

“Outcall, you mean.” Neal kept his voice low.

“Well, it’s a legitimate escort service. You’d provide companionship for an evening and whatever comes after the evening’s done is all yours.”

“I’d be a walker?” That was something Neal was familiar with and sounded like a good idea. He’d done it as a cover, never professionally. When it was useful for a job, he’d don a tux, take a wealthy old woman out to some society event, and let her grope his ass for the night, all while listening for indiscreet conversation. “I’m not doing this to help you case second-story jobs.”

“I know that. If you don’t want my help, then say so.” Moz pulled out a novel and started to read. 

“Look – I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Thank you.” Neal was sincere, or at least he hoped he sounded that way.

He must have, because Moz tucked his book back into the ancient messenger bag he’d been carrying as long as Neal had known him. 

“This event planner friend of yours – she’s got the right type of clientele?”

“Not in the traditional sense.” There was an odd note in Mozzie’s voice. “You know you won’t be charming widows and divorcees and lonely women out of their panties.”

The train’s whistle punctuated the serenity of the afternoon, and Neal turned to stare at Moz. “Ah. I’d be charming balding old men out of their y-fronts.”

Moz shrugged. “If that’s what you want.”

“You mean, if that’s what _they_ want.”

Moz bristled again. “Look – it’s just an idea. You want to avoid going back to prison, your options are limited. I thought this would be a good way to use your more obvious assets. And like I said, it’s not _really_ outcall. You do only what you want to do. Elizabeth’s very firm about that.”

“Elizabeth?”

“My friend, Elizabeth Mitchell.”

“How do you know this woman?”

“I helped her out with a few things a few years back.”

“Nice and vague, Moz. I’d appreciate some specifics.”

“And I’d appreciate some discretion.” Moz folded his arms across his chest, making it clear that this part of the conversation was closed.

Neal turned back to the window and watched the world speed by. With each passing moment, they got closer to New York City. The suburbs were replaced by the industrial detritus of southern Westchester and eventually the Bronx. The sight gladden Neal’s soul – it felt like half a lifetime since he’d seen civilization, not four years.

He did give Mozzie’s proposal some thought. There was just one thing he wanted above everything, and that was never to go back to prison. And while he was good, he wasn’t perfect. He was shamelessly arrogant and had minimal impulse control, a combination that inevitably would get him arrested again. 

But the thought of giving everything up, the lux life in particular, was almost unbearable. He’d spent too many years scrounging as a child, having to make do because his mother was too “sick” to do right by her son, to have to survive on a minimum wage. Working a few nights a week as a companion for wealthy older men could mean the difference between barely surviving and actually thriving. He’d have time for his art, for the other things in life that mattered. Maybe he’d go back to school…

Moz must have seen something on his face. “So, you’ll do it?”

“Yeah – I will.”

“El will need to interview you, of course.”

“Interview?” 

“Yeah. You have to realize that she’s not just going to hire you on my word.” Moz tone was placating. “I’ve gotten some of your stuff out of storage and made an appointment for a haircut. You’ll need to look your best when you go to see her this evening.”

“Tonight? You’re not letting any grass grow, are you?”

“It’s got to be tonight; I’ve got something out on the West Coast that I have to take care of. You can stay at one of my safe houses for a few nights, but you’re going to need to get your own place by the time I get back.”

“Thanks, Moz. You’re so very generous.”

“I know.” Clearly, his friend didn’t pick up on the sarcasm.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Elizabeth Mitchell loved her life. She had a busy and satisfying career that she built all by herself, one that took her all over the country these days. An intimate party for some high rollers in the art world translated into a gala event for a major museum and within a year, her name was on everyone’s contact list. Mitchell Premier Events was _the_ event planner for museums and galleries in New York, Chicago and San Francisco.

But as exciting as that work was, it was her other business that gave El the greatest thrill. That business had no name, and it operated literally by word of mouth and an anonymous Hotmail account. She thought she was busted when Peter discovered the source of all her extra income, but he surprised her. Instead of turning her in, he wanted to work for her.

She always wondered why. Peter Burke tall, good-looking, smart and it wasn’t like he was hurting for money. She had even entertained the idea of seducing him herself, even though she usually preferred women. But business was more important than pleasure, and Peter Burke was was all business. Of all the men in her “stable,” Peter quickly became her prize stallion. 

It surprised her, because most of her customers initially preferred youth over experience, but once they met Peter, they couldn’t get enough of him. He was booked three to five nights a week, and there were times when he’d have a date in the afternoon and another in the evening, and then another date the next night. El was just waiting for the day when he told her ‘enough’, but apparently Peter Burke was indefatigable. She knew that about seventy-five percent of his “dates” were preludes to sexual encounters, but she was careful never to ask. 

She wasn’t a pimp.

But she was a risk-taker, which was why she had to agree to meet Mozzie’s friend. She’d seen his picture and even discounting half of what Moz told her as pure exaggeration, he’d be a welcome addition to her string of men. She’d done her own research, of course. Neal Caffrey, conman and gentleman thief, arrested for multiple crimes but only convicted of bond forgery. Served four years in Sing-Sing because he had a well-earned reputation as an escape artist.

Elizabeth checked the time, it was a little after seven, and she was due to meet Neal in a half-hour at a local Starbucks. Normally she loathed the corporate coffee culture, but the shops were as anonymous as airport bathrooms and the other patrons were all too absorbed in their screens and their conversations to pay attention to what anyone else was doing. 

The brisk fifteen minute walk through the October evening was refreshing, and El knew that the cool air and exertion brought an attractive blush to her cheeks. She wanted to appear charming, not formidable.

She could see Moz’s distinctive features through the plate glass store front; he had commandeered one of the few tables in the place, and as she walked in, a man in a black trilby sat down next to her friend. She couldn’t quite see his face, but she didn’t doubt that this was Neal Caffrey.

Both men stood up as she approached, and Moz air-kissed both her cheeks, Continental style before making introductions. “El, this is Neal. Neal, Elizabeth.”

The three of them sat down, but El gave Moz a look.

“What?” She adored Moz, but sometimes he was clueless.

“I’d like to talk with Neal…”

“Go right ahead.” Moz made a magnanimous gesture.

“Alone.”

Moz blinked, turtle-like, behind his thick glasses. “Oh. Ah. Sorry.” He got up, taking his cup of tea. “Neal …”

“Yeah – I know…”

El smiled. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

Moz nodded, looked back at Neal, grimaced and left.

Neal let out a snort of a chuckle and grinned at Mozzie’s retreating figure.

“Known him long?”

“Yeah. You?”

“A few years – he helped me out with something.”

“What?”

“I had a problem, he fixed it.”

“What type of problem?” Neal was digging.

“A little problem. He was kind enough to take care of it for me.”

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Moz wouldn’t tell me, either.” He smiled, and his charm hit her like the proverbial ton of bricks. She had the feeling that he wasn’t even operating at full wattage. 

“Talk to me about prison.” She had to take him down a notch. Or two.

Neal’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it got a little broader, a little brighter. “Prison was an experience I don’t want to repeat, ever.”

“What was the worst thing about it?” She figured he’d say something to shock her – like avoiding rape in the showers.

But he didn’t. His answer was remarkably sincere. “The boredom, doing the same thing every hour of every day, staring at the same walls, never doing anything meaningful. I will not go back.”

“You sound like a man determined to walk the line.”

Neal nodded. “You could say that. But I’m not going to spend the rest of my life in penury, either.”

“No – you don’t seem the type.” El could see that Neal Caffrey was a high maintenance kind of man. Less than a day out of prison and he was groomed like a cover model for Gentleman’s Quarterly. Or maybe not. She looked at his hands, and they weren’t those that belonged to a man of leisure.

Not so subtly, Neal brought the conversation back to the reason for their meeting. “Moz tells me that you run a service business, as well an event planning company.”

Elizabeth was amused. “Are you interviewing _me?_ ”

“Maybe we’re interviewing each other?”

“Okay – I can work with that.” She leaned back in her chair and answered his question. “Yes – I do. It’s a very discreet business.”

“Discretion is my middle name.”

“I thought ‘George’ was?” 

Neal laughed. “That too.”

“My clientele requires discretion, and a certain level of fantasy.”

“I can be whatever you need me to be, whatever your clients want.”

“What they want is a charming companion, someone to talk with, someone to show off. Someone to spend an evening with.”

“Are we talking out-of-town businessmen or locals?”

“Both – but I can see that you’d be in demand for the more social set.”

“Which means I can’t be George Daventry to Arthur and Steve Tabernacle to William, if both Arthur and William want public companionship.”

“Exactly. Moz said you catch on quickly, that you were a smart man.”

Neal smirked. “And you like smart?”

“Most definitely.” El thought for a moment. She wanted to hire Neal, had a feeling he’d be as in-demand as Peter, but he was also a huge risk. Not because he was an ex-con, but because she had a feeling he was a romantic. Moz had implied that most of his exploits were intended to get the attention of his absent girlfriend. And that was another problem. “Are you gay for pay or bi?”

El delighted at the flush that stained the man’s cheeks. She had a feeling that few people caught Neal Caffrey off guard.

“I swing both ways. My girlfriend – “

“Kate?” 

Neal raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“Moz mentioned her.”

“Yeah, Kate. She’s now married to a man I had once been intimately involved with.”

“That must rankle.” She didn’t let her sympathy show.

“It hurt, but you know what – they deserve each other.”

El wasn’t sure she bought Neal’s apparent lack of concern, but his heart wasn’t relevant to her business. And if he was longing for the one (or ones) that got away, he’d be less likely to fall for a client, which was what really mattered. Her mind made up, she laid it out for Neal. “You’ll work for me two or three times a week. You don’t ever tell me you’re not available unless you’re sick. While I’ll let you know what’s expected – whether you’re going to be a dinner date or a social companion, your most important role is to be the fantasy the client wants. What happens when the evening comes to an end is completely up to you, and if the client choses to give you a tip for your companionship, that’s up to the client. You’ll get a 1099 form, you’ll file your taxes and you’ll keep records of all of the gratuities you are paid, because you’ll pay taxes on those amounts, too.”

Neal seemed to appreciate her forthright manner. “What’s my job title?”

“Job title?” El chuckled. “How does ‘Consultant’ strike you?”

Neal smiled and shrugged. “It’s okay. I can live with those rules.”

“Those aren’t the only ones. You don’t freelance, ever. You want to go out on your own, you and I are quits. No second chances, Neal.”

“And you’ll ruin me if I do?”

“No – not at all. I’ll wish you luck.” That wasn’t quite true. Elizabeth wasn’t a vindictive woman, but she wasn’t a pushover, either. When one of her men left, she would keep an eye on him. If he was still “working,” she’d make a discrete telephone call to a certain IRS field office and put him out of work. That had happened just twice in the decade that she’d been doing this.

Neal pushed his hat back on his head and for the first time this evening, Elizabeth got the full effect of his beauty. “Any other rules I should know about?”

“A few. You’ll get tested for HIV and hepatitis this week and provide me with the code and call-in number to get your results. You’ll get retested every month without fail – no test, no clients.”

“Seems reasonable. What else?”

“Get a manicure – your hands look like shit. And maybe a session or two at a tanning parlor. Just to take the edge off your prison pallor.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

There was a bar that Peter liked. It was a few doors down the block from the Bryant Park Hotel. It wasn’t so trendy that he ran the risk of running into former clients, just a place he liked to go when he didn’t have a job for the evening. A place to relax and be himself for a little while, even if _himself_ was a little less than Peter Burke, financial consultant, and a little more than Peter Cullinan, paid companion.

The nuts were fresh; the beer cold, there was usually a game on and no one bothered him. It wasn’t seedy; it was just a slice of New York that he enjoyed being part of. And he deeply resented Elizabeth for asking him to meet Nick Halden, the newest member of her cadre of paid companions here, in his refuge, and test him out.

So he was in one of Cullinan’s custom-tailored suits with the hand-made Italian leather loafers, with Cullinan’s wallet in his pocket, waiting for some bright young thing on a downward spiral to show up and try to get him into bed. 

At least Elizabeth was footing the bill for this.

Peter Burke may have liked a cold beer, but Peter Cullinan drank vodka martinis, Stolichnaya was his preference. He tipped the bartender and waited with one eye on the door, the other on the Knicks game. All El would tell him was that this “date” was his type. That annoyed Peter, because he didn’t have a type. At least he didn’t think he did. The minutes ticked away and Peter was getting annoyed. His date was supposed to be here at nine-thirty, sharp. It was now a quarter to ten.

A man walked into the bar, slim, well-dressed, tall but not as tall as he was. His dark hair was a little long, a little windblown. He was looking around and when he caught Peter’s eye, he smiled.

And Peter’s breath caught in his throat. Even from this distance, he could see that the man was extraordinary. Handsome wasn’t the word – he was truly beautiful, but it was more than that – he had a magnetic quality about him. Peter looked around and wasn’t surprised that the other patrons were looking at the guy, too.

Elizabeth must have given him his description, because he made his way right over to him, no pauses, no hesitation.

“You must be Peter?” He held out a hand, and Peter took it.

“And you’re Nick?” Peter wondered if that was his real name. Probably not, if he were smart. Given his looks, he doubted that. 

“I’m sorry I’m late. I got a little sidetracked.” Nick explained, his explanation was deliberately vague. “I hope you aren’t too annoyed with me.” The smile he gave Peter spoke volumes, though. It was the grin of a man who knew just how much latitude his looks could buy for him.

“No, not really.” Peter was deliberately vague too. Let the guy think he was put out. “It’s not like this is a test or anything.” Which is exactly what it was. 

Nick’s mask stayed firmly in place. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“I think that’s supposed to be my line.”

Nick shrugged. “I’m not one much for roles. Or rules.”

“I can tell, but let me, okay?”

Nick tilted his head, a gesture of gracious acceptance. “Then I’ll have a vodka martini, please. Ketel One.”

Peter tried to hide his grimace and took matters into his own hands. He asked the bartender for two Stolyi martinis and they migrated over to a booth.

Nick took a sip of his drink and nodded. “Ah.”

“Ah?”

“Nothing – just realized something. Not important.”

Peter raised an eyebrow.

“Okay – I just learned that my tastes aren’t infallible.” 

Peter chuckled. He just might find himself liking Nick Halden. But there was still an evening to get through, and this was a test, after all. Not a real date or even a job. He let Nick take the conversational lead.

“What brings you to New York?”

“What makes you think I’m not from the area?”

Nick blinked, realizing that he misstepped. “I guessed …” 

He was flailing, but Peter took pity on him. “It’s okay – I’m a local, but work’s kept me in town overnight.”

Nick gave him a grateful smile. “What do you do?”

“CPA, a client needed some advice and was willing to pay for it.”

“You’re not a tax accountant, though. You don’t seem to type who spends his days pouring over receipts and returns and reading the IRS regs in bed.” A perceptive comment. Maybe this Nick wasn’t such a dumb bunny after all. 

“No, I consult.”

“Business acquisitions?”

Peter nodded, an easy enough lie. He wondered where Nick was going to go with that. But he changed the subject. “Have you ever been to Paris?”

“A few times.”

“I love Paris – particularly this time of year. Before it gets cold and nasty. The autumn evenings, walking through the Marais. Tonight, it felt, I don’t know, a lot like the last time I was there. Something about the moonlight, the whisper of the wind through the scattering leaves.”

Peter blinked. This wasn’t some practiced palaver. Nick seemed lost in his memories of that city. “That’s what kept you?”

The other man gave him a diffident shrug. “Yeah – I was cutting through the park and just stopped and stood there, looking up, listening.”

Peter gave a wry laugh. “I can remember a time when walking through Bryant Park, even in daylight, meant taking your life in your hands.”

Nick laughed too. “I’m not so young that I can’t remember the horrors of Needle Park.”

“No, not so young, are you?” Peter figured that Nick was in his early thirties, fifteen or so years younger than he was. But there was something in the man’s eyes that led him to think that his birthday had nothing to do with his age. And his next words proved that.

“What’s the expression? Old enough to know better, young enough not to care?”

“You’re too young to be so cynical.”

“Age, Peter, is only a state of mind. And sometimes I feel like I’m a hundred.”

Peter started to wonder just who Nick Halden was. What he wasn’t was some down-on-his-heels rich boy who ran through his trust fund and was now looking to score a sugar daddy. Not for the first time did he wish he’d pressed Elizabeth for more background, but he could always do a little fishing on his own. “What do you do with your days?” 

“I’m an artist.”

That was the most unexpected of answers. “Really?”

Nick nodded, once again shy. 

Peter couldn’t create art if his life depended on it, but he had deep appreciation for it and for artists. “What is your medium?”

“Mostly drawing and painting, but I dabble in sculpture.”

“Making a living as an artist must be difficult.”

“Yeah, and I’m past the age when setting up an easel outside of Lincoln Center and sketching the tourists has any sort of attraction.”

“You’re a portraitist?”

“Sometimes. Mostly, I prefer _en plein air_.

Peter was now more than intrigued. “New York in the autumn can be perfect for outdoor painting. Do you have any favorite places?”

“The High Line, of course. And Central Park, near the lake and Belvedere Castle. Of course, those scenes have been painted a thousand times. But there’s a spot, just off of the Heather Garden near The Cloisters, the view of the George Washington Bridge …”

Peter was enraptured. They talked about art and New York, everything from the Ash Can School to Pop Art, touching on some of relatively recent art gallery scandals. 

“You didn’t know that the Knoedler closed?” That surprised Peter – the Knoedler was once the foremost gallery for modern art in New York. When it was shuttered eighteen months ago, it came as something of a shock.

Nick’s reply surprised Peter even more. “I’ve been busy, don’t have too much time to read the newspaper. I can’t imagine that the closing would have made the network’s nightly news.”

“No, but it is a juicy story.”

Nick got an odd look when Peter told him how the gallery had been implicated in the sale of dozens of forgeries of works by very prominent Twentieth Century American artists. Probably just the sensitivity of an artist at even the thought of having his work illegally copied.

The bartender polite interrupted their conversation. “Gentlemen, we are closing now.” 

Peter looked at his watch, astonished to see that it was close to two AM. He’d become so involved, so invested in this moment that he’d completely forgotten that this wasn’t just an evening out for his own pleasure, or even a date with a client, but an assignment. Which wasn’t done. Over the past few hours, Peter had learned Nick Halden was just about everything that Elizabeth Mitchell might want from a professional escort. 

Someone had turned up the lights and the cleaning crew was drifting into the room, lifting up chairs, clearing away the detritus of the evening. If Nick were his client, Peter would make a gentle suggestion, nothing specific, about how the man might want to conclude the evening. But since their roles were reversed, Peter waited for him to broach the subject.

He was classy, Peter had to admit. Subtle, too. Nick brushed his fingers against Peter’s wrist, lightly circling the bone, a feathered caress against his pulse point, and his eyes lit up when that pulse sped up.

“Where are you staying?”

“The Bryant Park Hotel, a few doors down.”

“Do you want to go back there?” 

Peter nodded, and damn, if his mouth hadn’t gone as dry as the Sahara. He slid out of the booth and held out a hand to Nick. His reward for the old fashioned gesture was an ineffably sweet smile. The old, tired, and cynical part of his brain said that this was just a well-practiced act, but the man who dreaded going home to his empty apartment on the Upper East Side, who longed for the companionship of an equal, was enthralled.

He kept a hand on the small of Nick’s back, just above the curve of his ass, guiding him out of the bar. But when they reached the street, Peter kept his hands to himself, but they walked so close their shoulders were touching. The air was brisk, and despite the early hour, the city still hummed with life. A doorman nodded and welcomed them. Peter steered Nick towards the bank of elevators. The hotel staff was, of course, discreet.

At this hour, the elevators were open and waiting, and it took just a few brief moments to get from the lobby to his room on the twenty-third floor. In keeping with Peter Cullinan’s more expensive persona (and Elizabeth’s deep pockets), he had taken a terrace suite overlooking the park. The décor wasn’t to his personal tastes – too minimalist, too consciously Danish modern – but nice enough to impress Nick, who wandered through the room, fingers drifting over the hardwood furniture, and over to the floor-to-ceiling terrace windows. He opened the curtains and looked down on the park. Peter could tell he was impressed, but Nick didn’t say anything, though. _Good_

“A drink? A glass of wine?”

“How about some sparking water?”

Peter retrieved a bottle of Perrier and split it between two glasses. Handing one to Nick, he lifted his own. “Cheers.”

“Saluté.”

Peter sipped, grateful for something to ease the dryness. He hadn’t anticipated any sexual encounter this much since… He couldn’t remember when. Certainly he had never been this turned on by any of his clients. Business was business and pleasure wasn’t necessary. But this was business, too.

Nick was looking at him, his expression curious. “Do you do this often?”

Peter’s response was blunt. “Hire outcall? Not very.”

“Why tonight?”

“Because I didn’t want to go back to an empty bed.” It was the truth, for both Peter Burke and Peter Cullinan. “And because you’re beautiful.” Also the truth.

Nick reached out, his fingers a whisper-soft brand, scalding hot against his cheek. “You don’t strike me as a man who needs much.” He swallowed, and then continued. “But when you do need, I think you’d be impossible to satisfy.”

Peter gripped Nick’s hand, forcing himself to be gentle. What right did this boy – this _whore_ – have to see him so clearly? He wanted to crush him, but he let go.

He stepped back, ready to tell Nick to leave. But the words wouldn’t come.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal wondered if he had just made a strategic mistake. Not in what he said just to Peter, but this damn whole evening. He knew he was being too open, too much himself. With every word, every gesture, he warmed to this man, forgetting that he was a client, someone paying for his time, his charm, and ultimately, his body.

He couldn’t help it. Peter Cullinan was – and Neal even tried to shy away from the thought – everything he ever wanted in a man. Thoughtful, intelligent, dedicated. And he couldn’t deny the physical attraction, either. That body was so big, so strong, that Neal wanted to take shelter in his arms and never leave.

And that made him a fool, an idiot. He was here to do a job, to give Peter his money’s worth, and make something for himself, too. But it was so easy to forget that, to build a fantasy where they were simply two lonely strangers who managed to find a little happiness together. And so, his tongue got the better of him, he gave voice to his thoughts, the truth of his perception.

When Peter stepped back, Neal thought he was going to tell him to leave. There was something dark and troubled about Peter, something that should have repulsed Neal, it should have made him run, Elizabeth and this job and his future be damned. Instead, that darkness was magnetic. It pulled him towards Peter like a celestial object caught in a black hole’s gravitational field. He was fast approaching the event horizon.

Instead of telling him to go, Peter shook his head and touched _him_ , his hand a heavy weight, first on his shoulder, then down his chest. His words crushed the illusion of intimacy. “How do you want – ” He stopped, changed course. “How will we do this?”

Neal took a breath, almost grateful for the redirection. “How about you decide, and you give me what you think I’m worth.” He raised his chin, challenging Peter to say otherwise. 

But he didn’t. He gave a little laugh, a touch too self-aware for Neal’s tastes. “We can certainly play it like that. You’d rather keep the transaction out of the romance.”

“I’d just rather preserve the illusion.”

Peter’s hand slipped underneath his jacket, hot and hard against the fine cotton shirt. He pulled him close, and asked, “Do you kiss?”

The question, which should have been expected in this situation, threw Neal. Maybe it was the rumble of Peter’s voice, deep, like the chuffing of a lion before it roars. He didn’t answer, and Peter didn’t ask again. Instead, he leaned in and pressed his lips against his.

If Neal was expecting to be ravaged, he was disappointed. There was mastery in that kiss, it both asked and commanded. He couldn’t help but respond, it keyed into his soul, opening his lips, sighing his pleasure.

Peter’s hand slid down his back, his other hand cupped his cheek and Neal felt … he simply felt, no longer able to remember that this was a base transaction. In a little while, Neal would get up from the bed and go shower. He’d come out to the room and Peter would be under the covers, his back to him and there would (or should) be a neat stack of hundred dollar bills on the dresser, which he’d take as his due.

Neal would walk out the door, expecting never to see Peter Cullinan again, but hoping that he would. Because without hope, there was nothing.

But now, Neal was caught up in the beauty, the sensuality of this near-stranger’s hands as they held him like he was something perfect and precious.

Somehow, his suit jacket fell from his shoulders, his tie was loosened and the top button on his collar undone. Peter’s lips drifted down his jaw, settling for a moment under his ear, his warm breath making Neal shiver, before moving on to the base of his throat. His own breath caught as Peter turned him around, so they were front to back, facing the large mirror over the dresser. The light was dim, but just bright enough that Neal could see the expressions on their faces.

He looked enraptured; his eyes were wide and dark, his mouth open, desperate, almost frightened. Peter was all controlled desire – wanting this as much as Neal did, which was an odd sort of comfort. He could let his own guard down, this wasn’t about power or humiliation (not that Neal thought it was, that kiss was too beautiful for such base motives), but the strength of his own need made him fear just how easily that desire could be turned against him.

Peter’s fingers were clever, easily working his shirt buttons loose, then his cuffs and finally his belt before pulling the garment free. His palms stroked Neal’s torso, his fingers teasing the muscles, discovering the definition that too many hours spent on the prison yard had added to his once slight frame. Another man might have focused on the more obvious erogenous zones – working his nipples, zeroing in on his cock, but Peter was content to toy with his body, to find all the pleasure points, like the curve of his waist where it met his hip, the almost too-ticklish bit of skin on the inside of his elbow. 

Neal wondered if this was how Galatea felt when Pygmalion woke her from her ivory prison.

His shirt was tossed aside and Peter unbuttoned and unzipped his pants; the fell to the floor and Neal stepped out of them, toeing off his shoes and then his socks. His briefs followed, and he was completely naked. His skin felt too tight – not just his cock, which was so erect that the head was flush against his navel – but his entire body.

Peter stroked his fingers up and down his body, leaving trails of fire in their wake. The sensation was almost too much to bear, but Neal didn’t know if he could bear it if Peter stopped. “Please …” He breathed the single syllable, begging for more, begging for everything.

“Do you want me to stop?” Peter’s voice, that deep, sensual rumble, accelerated Neal’s desire.

“No, no – please, no. Don’t stop.” This was wrong – wasn’t he supposed to be making love to Peter? Wasn’t he supposed to be the one giving pleasure?

Maybe Peter sensed his confusion, because he laughed and pressed a kiss into his shoulder. “This is what _I_ want.”

Neal leaned back against him, startled by the sensation of fabric and buttons and Peter’s rock hard cock pushing against the fly of his trousers. He opened his eyes (not even sure when he closed them) and watched the two of them in the mirror. Not Galetea now, but a reinterpretation of the naked girl in Manet’s _Déjeuner sur l’herbe_.

Peter worshipped his skin, hands and mouth ghosting over his flesh and Neal moaned. Hot kisses pressed into his shoulder blades, along his spine, against the curve of his waist, his hips. The man, damn him, still avoided the more obvious erogenous zones, leaving his ass untouched. And when his mouth found the skin on the back of his knees, his lips and tongue torturing him, Neal all but collapsed.

Peter caught him, and in the small part of his brain that was still functioning, Neal wondered why that seemed so significant. But the thought escaped him as Peter carefully deposited him on the bed, the white sheets cool against his overheated skin and continued the slow unwinding of Neal’s sanity.

“Skin – I want to touch you, please.” Neal reached for Peter, and the man, damn him, laughed again. 

“Tonight is about what I want. Remember that, Nick, and we’ll all be a lot happier.” But Peter acquiesced and stopped touching Neal just long enough to strip out of his suit. He tried to sit up, to help remove Peter’s clothes, to touch his skin, to give him back just a small part of the pleasure he’d been receiving. Peter wouldn’t let him, that evil bastard.

He pushed him back on the bed, holding him there with no apparent effort. That casual display of strength was as arousing as a hand stroking his cock.

Peter leaned over him, they were eye-to-eye and Neal lifted his head, closing the gap and kissed him.

With that touch of lips, the control that Peter maintained over the moment, evaporated. He became an animal, kissing and biting Neal’s lips, devouring him. And Neal delighted in it, delighted in the sudden power he had, cupping his hands around Peter’s head, holding him close. There was no fraction of skin that wasn’t in contact with other skin, the heat between them flared and Neal rocked up hard against Peter’s body. Their cocks met and slid against each other and Neal almost lost control. 

Peter reared back. “I want to fuck you. I want to see your face as you come. I want to bury my cock so deep in your ass you’ll never forget what I feel like.”

Words, words that should have been ridiculous from a client to a man he was paying for sex, rocked Neal to his soul. He murmured “Yes” and “Yes” and “Yes” as Peter touched him, touched his cock like he owned it – and maybe he did. When Peter took his hand away, Neal whimpered, a lost and dreadful sound.

This time, Peter didn’t laugh. He kissed him and just said, “Condom, lube. Hold on, babe.”

He was like Pavlov’s dog, his cock leapt – impossibly harder – when he heard the condom wrapper tear. And the lube – _ohmygodomygodohmygod_ – Peter’s big hands, so gentle, so determined as he smoothed the slick into his asshole, easing him open, preparing him.

His whines of need and Peter’s words of praise and encouragement echoed through hotel the room.

“That’s it, that’s it.” Peter eased two fingers into him, gently scissoring, before adding a third. “Let me know if this hurts or you’re uncomfortable.”

In a moment of stunning clarity, Neal realized what Peter was doing – he was treating him like a virgin. That was ridiculous, of course – Peter had hired an escort with the expectation of ending the evening with sex. He tried to say that he’d done this before, but Peter found his joy button and he lost all capacity for speech, for rational thought.

Peter was kissing him, his tongue licking at him, teeth biting, the small pain intending to distract. But there was no pain. Peter had prepped him so perfectly, he was so relaxed, so eager that when his cock, big by any standard, pressed against his hole, it slid in without pain.

He watched Peter’s face as he moved over him, taking him, taking everything that Neal had to give. The darkness was still there, but there was joy too, and pleasure as he worked his cock so carefully, never too fast, too rough. 

“You don’t have to be this gentle. I won’t break.”

“But I think _I_ will.” Peter’s reply devastated him, but his hands tightened on his hips, thrusts sped up, and as his belly kept rubbing against Neal’s cock, he knew that it wouldn’t last much longer for either of them. He wrapped his legs around Peter’s hips, his thighs burning as he pulled him closer, unable to bear even the moment’s separation. 

His orgasm, when it came, was a slow explosion of desire. His muscles clamped down against Peter’s cock, extending the pleasure until it bordered on pain. Peter groaned and buried his face in Neal’s neck as his own ardor crested, his hips, his cock pounding into him.

Peter finally stilled and the only sound was the counterpoint of their panting breath. Neal thought he could lie here, under Peter, forever and be content.

That was not to be. All too soon, Peter moved off him and Neal was left empty, bereft. He knew he should get up, make some light remark, go take a shower, but he couldn’t move. He closed his eyes, unwilling to give up these last few moments to reality.

He felt Peter get up and leave the bed, heard a faucet running, the toilet flush. He opened his eyes, only to find Peter standing over him, a wet washcloth in hand and an odd, gentle expression on his face.

Neal tried to sit up, to apologize, but Peter shushed him. “It’s my call, remember?” 

Peter stroked the cloth over his face, down his body, between his legs and Neal was unaccountably embarrassed. He struggled against the ministrations, “I’ll shower.” Peter finally let him go.

The suite’s bathroom was luxurious, but Neal was in no condition to appreciate it. He washed quickly, as if it were the moldy communal prison facility and the threat of rape was only an underpaid prison guard away.

He wrapped a towel around his waist and finger combed his hair, not even bothering to check his grooming in the mirror. Stepping back out into the bedroom, he found Peter mostly dressed, pants on, but his shirt unbuttoned, feet bare. His own clothes had been picked up and placed neatly on the valet stand. He grabbed them, dressing as fast as he could, shoving his sockless feet into his loafers, rolling up his tie and stuffing it into his jacket pocket. 

There was something so horrible about this moment. It was just business.

Neal looked at the dresser. There was the expected pile of bills, all hundreds. His hand hovered over them. Peter was still standing there, behind him. Their eyes met in the mirror and Neal scooped up the money, tucking it into the jacket’s breast pocket.

This was what he came here for. That’s all.

“Take care of yourself, Nick.” The words fell like stones into a still pond.

Neal tried to reply, tried to tell Peter to ask for him if he ever got lonely. But he just nodded and left.

It was close to five AM. It was still a few hours until dawn, but the day already felt old.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Diana, did you hear who got out of Sing-Sing last week?” Clinton Jones didn’t bother to knock. He just barged into her office and flopped down in the single guest chair.

“Yeah, I did. The Bureau of Prisons sent me the Release Notice. Four years and it feels like it was just yesterday we were in the courtroom, listening to Caffrey’s sentencing.”

“Well, that was only three years and about six months ago – he was credited for time served.”

“Long enough.”

“We chased the son of a bitch for three years, only to see the US Attorney blow the case. He should have gotten twenty years. Instead he walked on almost every charge.” Clinton wasn’t bitter or vindictive, just stating the facts.

“Have to be grateful that Caffrey was such an arrogant little shit. If he hadn’t approached me at the bank where he had cashed that bond – “

“And given you that lime sucker.”

“And that, we wouldn’t have gotten a conviction on the bond forgery charge either.” Diana leaned back and gave her fellow agent a thoughtful look. “How long do think it’s going to be before we’re after him again.”

“We? Count me out – I’m in charge of bank fraud and money laundering now. You’re the expert on art crimes.”

“Caffrey’s a Renaissance thief, you know that. He’ll be on _your_ radar soon enough.”

“Maybe he’s already on yours.” Clinton handed her a copy of today’s New York Times, the paper folded to display a very specific article. “Did you hear about the theft of the Thayer from the Lampson Gallery. Slash-and-grab last night. Could be that Caffrey’s decided to get back in the game.”

Diana scanned the article. “This isn’t his M.O. He’d be more likely to replace the painting with one of his forgeries instead of leaving an empty frame. Caffrey’s too much of an art aficionado to risk the damage a slash-and-grab might cause. But still, if he were desperate…”

“NYPD are on the case, but probably wouldn’t object to a little interdepartmental cooperation, especially if you could deliver a suspect all nicely gift-wrapped. It’s being handled out of Major Case.” Clinton gave her that look.

“Just because I dated Dana Shattuck a few years ago doesn’t mean I can expect any special favors.”

“Doesn’t mean anything, except that she’s a good cop and doesn’t have a stick up her ass when it comes to things like jurisdiction and letting the FBI take the lead.” 

“Hmm.” Diana thought about it. “Do we have any idea where Caffrey went after Sing-Sing.”

“Nope. He served his time, no need to register with anyone. I guess you could check the ICE database to see if he’s used a passport.”

“Who knows what alias he’s traveling under? I’m sure we didn’t burn all of them.” She sighed. “Probably should interview the gallery manager, talk to the cops on the case before we jump the gun and call this a ‘Caffrey’.”

“Again, stop with the ‘we’ – I’m just here to deliver the news, not spend the next three years chasing after James Bonds again.”

Diana laughed and shooed Clinton out of her office. They had has been good friends as well as friendly rivals at the Academy, vying for the top honors and stayed in contact through their probationary years. When a slot had opened up here in New York’s White Collar division a decade ago, Diana had jumped at the chance to work with her old friend. 

They rose through the ranks together, until Clinton was given charge of a money laundering task force, an assignment that lead to a major promotion. He was the head the unit’s bank fraud division and had a staff of ten agents. Which was only fair, since Diana had gotten the lion’s share of attention and approbation after she arrested Neal Caffrey, con man, forger and art thief.

Despite the years she spent chasing the man, the frustration of constantly missing him – often by mere minutes, interviewing his victims – many of whom didn’t even realize they’d been robbed, she liked Neal Caffrey.

He was smart. More than smart, really. If there was such a thing, he was the ideal criminal, eschewing violence, creative in his execution, selective in his targets. He never stole anything from anyone who’d be seriously hurt by the loss and while that wasn’t an excuse for stealing, it did say something about the quality of Caffrey’s character.

She perused the article that Clinton gave her. This didn’t feel like Caffrey, but it wouldn’t hurt to check it out, see if she could track down her old nemesis. Prison had a way of changing people, usually not for the better.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was still early and the watering hole where Elizabeth had arranged to meet Neal was quiet. A few men were at the bar, watching a college football game, but the most of the booths and tables were empty.

“So, how did it go?” Elizabeth didn’t bother being coy or casual.

Neal smiled at her, a shit-eating grin as fake as a three-dollar bill. “Like a dream. Your client was most satisfied.”

“I know.” 

Neal raised an eyebrow at that. “Don’t tell me you send out surveys.”

“No, but that could be an interesting marketing tool.” They both laughed. “Actually, your date last night wasn’t really a client.”

“Not a client? What do you mean? He was a freebie?”

“No, he was a test.”

Neal frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You really don’t think I was going to give you an assignment and risk my business without making sure you really could do the job.”

She wasn’t surprised that Neal looked pissed. But she was surprised at how quickly the expression changed to one of satisfaction. 

“And I passed with flying colors, right.”

“Hmm, you passed. But not necessarily with flying colors.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I’m going to let Peter explain.” The shock on Neal’s face was worth the exorbitant cost of the suite at the hotel, Peter’s own nightly rate, and the money she had to reimburse him for “Nick’s” tip. She stood up and signaled. Peter had been waiting at the bar and joined them.

Peter kissed her cheek nodded at Neal, but called him Nick. Neal just stared at Peter, unblinking.

“Since we’re all one big happy family, proper introductions are in order. Peter Burke, meet Neal Caffrey.” When neither man moved, she gave Peter a little shove. “Shake hands and play nice.”

Neal was a little too grudging as he offered his hand, but Peter was polite as he took it before sitting down next to her. 

“El tells me that you had some complaints?”

Elizabeth laughed to herself. Neal was like a cat that got caught in the rain, all ruffled fur and attitude. 

Peter raised an eyebrow and Neal’s belligerence. “No complaints.” He turned to look at her. “What did you tell him?”

“Not a lot, I figured it would be best to come from you.”

“Ah, okay.” Peter turned his attention back to Neal. “I wasn’t expecting to be impressed.”

Thankfully, Neal dialed back the hostility and asked a genuine question. “You try out all of El’s new employees?”

“Not all – but she makes it worth my time when I do.”

“So, _were_ you impressed?”

El watched Peter and Neal. Their interaction was fascinating, and she got a germ of an idea. Better to wait and see where and how this went before developing it.

“Yes.” 

“But you weren’t completely satisfied.” Neal leaned forward, by all appearances, completely engaged.

“I think you know just how satisfied I was, _Neal_.”

El was delighted by the flush to Neal’s cheeks, one that was – to a lesser extent – mirrored on Peter’s.

“So, what was your problem?”

Peter sighed and grimaced, searching for words. He looked at her. “This would be a lot easier to do if you weren’t sitting here. Sorry”

“Nothing to apologize for, but I’m not going anywhere. This is my business, remember?”

“Okay.” He turned back to Neal. “I have nothing but praise for you – for Nick Halden – for the first part of the evening. You stumbled a bit, but I was deliberately hard on you. I was trying to trip you up. You recovered nicely and the rest of the night in the bar was …” Peter let out a huff of laughter, shaking his head. “Was one of the most enjoyable work nights I’ve had in a very long time. Believe me, if I was a real client, I’d book you for drinks and dinner ever Friday night.”

Oh, this was wonderful. It was all Elizabeth could do to keep from clapping in joy.

Neal blush deepened at Peter’s praise. “But afterwards? In your room, you weren’t impressed? You weren’t satisfied.”

Peter didn’t rise to the bait. “You were magnificent. And that’s the problem.”

“I don’t understand.”

Peter looked at his hands, discomfited. “You let me control the scene; you let me do just what I wanted.”

El couldn’t help herself and interrupted, “And what was that?”

“None of your business.” El frowned at his sharp reply. Peter didn’t even look at her. But he was right; this really wasn’t her business, as she so often said. She needed to know if Neal could perform, she didn’t need to know the specifics.

“Then what did I do wrong?” 

El was as confused as Neal.

“You gave too much of yourself, Neal. You can’t afford to become that emotionally invested in a client.”

Neal blinked and licked his lips. “Maybe I’m just that good, to make you believe that.”

“And maybe this is the first time you’ve be paid for sex.” 

Peter kept his voice low, but Elizabeth looked around, hoping that no one overheard them. “Boys, please.”

Peter scrubbed his face. “Look, I’ve got that thing tonight and I’m exhausted. Neal – or whatever he chooses to call himself – will be an asset for you. Hire him, don’t hire him – it’s your choice.” He started to slide out of the booth, but Elizabeth grabbed his arm.

“I’m not done with you.”

Peter stilled at the steel in her voice. Neal had the good sense to look cowed.

“What?”

“I think the two of you would be good for each other.”

“Huh?”

“Neal – he’s in need of some guidance. You – I get the feeling you’re more than ready to quit. Maybe he can give you back some of your spark.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

One of things he had always admired about Elizabeth Mitchell was how perceptive she was. It made her stand out in a field crowded with bored, wealthy women with too much time on their hands and husbands willing to pay to keep them busy. She could see what her clients – on both sides of her business – needed and provided it before they even understood what they wanted.

She also saw him way too clearly; she always had, even from the beginning. 

Which was why he shouldn’t have been surprised that Elizabeth could tell that he was almost to the end of his rope. But he couldn’t see how this guy, Neal Caffrey, could do anything about that. He looked over to Neal, wondering just what he thought about Elizabeth’s statement, but his expression was opaque.

El continued, like a bull in a china shop. “Peter – Neal’s going to need a place to stay and you’ve got plenty of room in that classic six.”

“Wait, wait – you live in a classic six and you work as an escort?” Neal blurted out.

“Shh – not so loud.” Peter wanted to kill Elizabeth, for so many reasons. “Yes I do. It was an investment a few decades ago. And why am I even telling you this?” He tried to leave, but again, Elizabeth held him back.

“Peter, listen to me. Neal’s in a bind, his living situation is only temporary.”

“And why’s that?”

Neal answered, “I’m staying with a friend. He’s not too … well, comfortable with having long term guests.” 

“And what makes you that think I would be?”

El, damn her, just kept the hits coming. “Because you’re lonely. And you like Neal.”

He turned on her. “I don’t need you to interfere with my life. Another word and someone’s going to be scrambling for an escort tonight.” He glared at Neal. “And I don’t think your charity case here is going to fit the bill. He’s not Garrett Fowler’s type.”

This time, he shook off Elizabeth’s hand and got up. “I wish you luck, Neal Caffrey. Just take my advice and don’t wear your heart on your sleeve so much.”

He stalked out, angry like he hadn’t been in a long time. The problem was that he liked Neal Caffrey, or Nick Halden, or whoever the fuck he was. The guy was just his type – as Elizabeth had told him. Smart, interesting, with a core of wildness that made Peter want to lock him up in a cell or a bedroom and keep him safe.

The thought of having Neal living under his roof was so damn enticing and that was the problem. It shouldn’t be this easy – nothing worth having was, and despite everything, Peter wasn’t even sure he wanted Neal. That brought him to a halt. No – he _wanted_ Neal, but he wasn’t sure he should. And that was pretty damn fucked up.

The bar El arranged for their little meeting was a few blocks from his apartment on 79h Street, just off of York Avenue. The mostly residential neighborhood was quiet; the loudest sound was the leaves rustling in the evening breeze. Peter could also hear footsteps – quick – coming up behind him, and out of habit, he stepped aside to let whoever was approaching pass.

But it wasn’t some jogger, but Neal Caffrey, who was trying to run him down. “Hey – “

Peter wasn’t in the mood to give him any quarter. “What do you want?”

“Just – “ Neal bent over, hands on his thighs, trying to catch his breath. “Just wanted to apologize. I didn’t say anything to Elizabeth about needing a place to stay. – I had no idea…”

Peter shook his head, whatever anger he’d been carrying drained away. “You really have no place to stay?”

“Well, Mozzie isn’t going to kick me to the curb, but he’ll make my life less than pleasant until I move out. He says that they’re called safe houses for a reason – and that they aren’t meant for long term stays.”

Against his will, Peter was intrigued. “Your friend sounds a little, well …”

“Weird? Yeah, that’s Moz in a word. But he doesn’t have a drop of malice in him. He’s just a little set in his ways.”

Peter started to walk, then waited for Neal – who hadn’t moved. “Well, come on. I’ve been thinking about getting a puppy, but you might do just as well.”

Neal grinned, his eyes glowing in the light from the streetlamp. “I’m better than a puppy – I’m already housebroken.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Early December**

“Neal?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you give me a hand?”

Neal finished tying his bow tie, shrugged into his tuxedo jacket and went to Peter, who was in his bedroom, struggling with his cufflinks. “God damn it. The cleaners over-starched the cuffs again. I don’t know why I bother…”

“Because they look good. Here, hold on.” Neal took the bit of gold and worked it through the cuffs. Yes, Mr. Ping’s had used too much starch, but Peter was being stubborn, trying to force the cufflink through the tight hole. “There, all done.”

Peter’s bow tie wasn’t done either, and without waiting for permission, he tied it. Feeling remarkably like a valet, he picked up Peter’s jacket and held it out for him, brushing away a few imaginary flecks of lint. Any excuse to touch the man. 

It was a few weeks before Christmas, and both he and Peter were working almost every evening (although Neal had put his foot down and told El that after ten straight nights, he was off for the weekend). Sometimes they even were working at the same event, like tonight’s Christmas Gala for the New York City Ballet. Not that it mattered; they weren’t travelling together and would have little contact throughout the evening.

It was a strange relationship. At first, Neal figured that Elizabeth had given Peter the low-down on the low points in Neal’s life. That he was a convicted felon fresh out of Sing-Sing. That he did hard time in a maximum security prison for a White Collar crime because he was too slippery to keep in a cushy Club Fed facility. But it didn’t take long to realize that she hadn’t told Peter.

A few days after Neal had moved in, he checked with Elizabeth. She told him, “He didn’t ask, and frankly, unless you want me to tell him, I won’t.” 

Neal figured, as long as they were friends – just friends – there was no need for Peter to know about his less-than-savory past. But if things progressed, this was a secret he couldn’t keep.

And they were friends, even though the first time they met ended in one of the most incredible sexual experiences of his life. While Neal would have been delighted to take that as a jumping off point to a deeper relationship, Peter preferred to act was like it never happened. He treated him with a blend of exasperation and off-hand affection, which Neal soaked up in lieu of what he really wanted. 

Neal, always willing to take a mile when the inch was given, spent as much time in Peter’s company as he could. Most non-working evenings were spent watching Peter do whatever he did when he wasn’t squiring around a client – sometimes watching a ball game, sometimes reading, sometimes doing his real-world work, because yes, Peter Burke was still a CPA and a financial planner with a very select group of clients.

Peter didn’t notice (or maybe he pretended not to notice) how obsessed he was. And Neal didn’t press; he waited, he planned, he observed.

And what he saw confused him. Peter was, by all accounts, a very wealthy man and didn’t need to work. By the end of the first week after he moved in, Neal had picked the locks on the desk and filing cabinets and discovered a contradiction. Peter Burke was the heir to a respectable real estate fortune. His father (“worked in construction”) had been a builder who rode the post-War real estate boom to the top before selling everything. Peter himself had been employed at some of the most prestigious accounting firms in the world. While they had all gone bust, Peter had been paid well and lived frugally.

So why was he doing as a paid escort and sex worker? The best Neal could figure out was that Peter Burke suffered from a massive case of ennui.

“You ready?”

“I think so.” Neal checked himself in Peter’s bedroom mirror, adjusting the jacket of his Tom Ford tuxedo. He looked good. As perfect as model on a runway, as one client had told him a few nights ago. He knew he was handsome, false modesty was pointless, and he knew how to give his clients just what they wanted, just what they paid for. There was no repeat of what happened the night Nick Halden let Peter Cullinan make love to him.

Peter laughed at his preening, “Yes, you’re beautiful, but you’re going to keep Mr. Wonderful waiting.” 

Neal sighed. His client tonight was anything but Mr. Wonderful. On paper, Daniel Picah should have been a perfect match for Neal. He was wealthy, an art collector who spread his money around a little too freely. But he was difficult to spend time with, and Neal had wanted to tell Elizabeth that she should consider dropping him.

When pressed, Neal couldn’t give a reason, other than the man drove him crazy. El said that wasn’t good enough, but she gave him an extra five percent for his trouble and just kept on booking him. She was probably charging Dan an additional ten percent for _her_ trouble. In the months he’d been working for her, Neal learned that Elizabeth Mitchell was a business woman first, last and always.

Neal didn’t say anything about Dan to Peter, though. From the first, Peter had made it clear that they didn’t talk about clients, except in the most general of terms. So Neal took to calling Dan “Mr. Wonderful” and left it at that.

He took two coats out of the closet and handed Peter’s to him. 

It was drizzling when they got to the street, the decorative holiday lights reflecting festively in the puddles. There were two cars waiting, one was Daniel’s Rolls, the other a more anonymous stretch Cadillac. Before heading off, Neal touched Peter’s arm. “See you later? Usual place?” After nights when they both worked, they’d taken to meeting at an all-night coffee shop and headed home together.

Peter nodded. “Yeah. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Do I ever?”

Peter walked off, his answer a chuckle.

Neal went over to the Rolls, and the driver, wearing a ridiculous traditional uniform, complete with peaked cap and leather driving gloves, opened the door for him. Daniel was waiting inside, all smiles and wet, hungry lips. He pounced on him before the driver shut the door. “I’ve missed you, Nick.”

Neal let Dan gently maul him and reminded himself that this client was harmless, just annoying. He was grateful, though, that the trip to the Palace Hotel was relatively brief. There was only so much he could take tonight.

The gala was in full swing by the time they arrived; bold face names were walking the red carpet, society photographers and paparazzi vying for the best shots of the beautiful people. Daniel wasn’t one of them and Neal tried to keep his face away from the cameras. 

Daniel kept a possessive arm around his waist as he greeted people he barely knew. Neal remained the consummate companion, smiling and nodding, giving Dan affectionate looks, reassuring him that these people appreciated him for more than his money. The man relaxed enough to let Neal go over to the bar and get them both drinks.

There was a short line and Neal leaned against the bar, people watching, keeping an eye out for his date (and for Peter, to be honest), when he heard a familiar voice ordering a familiar drink.

“Two vodka martinis, Ketel One, if you please.”

The hair on the back of his neck stood up and Neal was frozen in place. At least his back was to the mirror behind the bar and with any luck, he could be just another anonymous brunet in a tuxedo. But luck wasn’t with him tonight. As the bartender was mixing the drink, someone bumped into the man who ordered it, pushing him against Neal.

Neal tried to keep his head down, but he was still recognized.

“Well, well, Neal Caffrey. I don’t know if I should be surprised or appalled to find you here.”

He acknowledged the speaker. “Vincent.” That was it.

“Come now, Neal – or would you prefer ‘Nicholas’? Are you always so cold to old friends?”

“We were never friends.”

“That’s not how I remember it, _Nick_.” Adler leaned in and Neal’s head was filled with the too-strong scent of his expensive cologne. He whispered, “Do you think I’d let someone who wasn’t my _friend_ suck my dick?”

Neal swallowed and whispered back, “The way I remember it, you had to pay me before I opened my mouth. That’s not how friendship works.”

Adler just laughed; a nasty, threatening chuckle. “True, you were always a bit of a whore. I never stopped wondering what it would take to break you. Now that you’re back in New York, I may just have to find out.”

The bartender let Adler know his drinks were ready, and Vincent tossed a fifty into the tip jar. He left without another word. Neal tried to track his progress across the room, but Daniel barged into his field of vision. Neal plastered a smile on his face and tried to put Vincent out of his mind. “Sorry – there was a line. I’ll get us those drinks now.”

“Oh, never mind – there’s someone here, someone incredible! We have to meet him.” Daniel started to drag him away, but Neal hooked his arm around Dan’s waist, gently coaching him into a less impetuous flight. 

“Who are you introducing me to? An old friend?”

“Oh, no – not a friend at all. Someone I’ve been dying to meet forever. Vincent Adler – the art collector. Did you know that he was one of the founding members of the Antiquities Recovery Project? I have a _Go Yoshihiro_ sword – I think it may quite possibly be the _Honjo Masamune_ that once belonged to the first Shogun and was stolen during the American Occupation. I wonder if Mr. Adler would be interested in having it repatriated? I paid over two hundred thousand dollars for it and could use the tax write off …”

Dan droned on and on, while Neal let him steer them around the room, looking for the hopefully elusive Vincent Adler. Neal didn’t relish another encounter with his old employer, not so soon, and certainly not in Daniel Picah’s company.

Hope was in vain, as absent as his luck. The doors had opened to the dining room and Dan spotted Vincent. Nothing Neal did could slow him down. 

“Is anyone sitting here?” Dan didn’t wait for an answer as he pulled out the chair next to Adler. “I’ve so wanted to meet you. By the way, I’m Daniel Picah – you may have heard of me?” In his customary fashion, Dan rambled on, not letting Vincent or anyone else answer. “And, oh, this is my companion, Nick Halden. Nick – this is Vincent Adler – I so admire his work with the Antiquities Recovery Project …” 

Neal bit the inside of his lip to keep from groaning at Dan’s terrible manners. He caught Adler’s eyes, and remembered – all too unwillingly – why he once admired this man. Vincent listened patiently for about ten seconds before deliberately turning away, giving them the cold shoulder. Daniel, typical, clueless, hapless, just kept talking.

Neal reached out, laying a hand on his arm, to distract him, but stopped, horrified. A man approached the table, taking the seat on the other side of Adler. It was Peter.

In all the time that Neal had worked for Adler, all the hours spent with him – in and out of the office, in and out of his bed – he had never seen an expression as open, as admiring, as besotted as the one he wore now. Vincent was looking at Peter – _his_ Peter – like he was the very reason for his heart to keep beating.

Daniel finally realized that he no longer had Adler’s attention and noticed Peter. His face was transformed by almost-childlike glee. “I know you, right? Weren’t you my financial advisor?”

While Adler did a double-take, Peter, to his credit, didn’t seem the least bit fazed. Neal wondered if it was because he’d been at this game for so long, meeting up with another type of client was inevitable.

“Daniel, how are you? It’s been a few years.” Peter nodded.

Of course, Daniel had to launch into his spiel about the sword, completely oblivious to everything else. That was until Vincent stood up and whispered something in Peter’s ear. Peter looked around the table, his eyes resting briefly on Neal before moving on.

“If you’ll excuse us, we are actually supposed to be seated with some of the dancers from the company.” He held out his hand to Daniel. “It’s been good to see you again, and I’ll be in touch.”

“Yes, yes – of course.” Daniel reached out to take Peter’s hand, in the process knocking over a glass of red wine. 

The wait staff hurried over to clean up the mess and Peter made his escape. Neal almost envied him.

The evening was interminable, the food mediocre, and Neal keep drinking in hopes of losing consciousness before Daniel’s endless chatter gave him an aneurysm. He knew the odds of escaping the evening without a trip back to his client’s apartment were minimal. Dan liked sex almost as much as he liked talking.

Just before dessert was served, Neal excused himself for the men’s room. Despite his best efforts, he hadn’t drunk enough to do anything more than fill his bladder. Even with four years of enforced sobriety, he couldn’t get truly drunk on wine. Just mildly buzzed at best.

He relieved himself and was washing his hands when the last person he wanted to see appeared in the mirror behind him. _Fuck_.

“It’s good to see you using _all_ your talents, Neal. Do you like being a prostitute?”

Neal wiped his hands and kept his mouth shut.

But Vincent wasn’t inclined to let him escape. A hand on his shoulder stopped him. He could have shrugged it off, but something – maybe old memories – maybe new desire, kept him still. Adler pressed against him and even through his jacket, Neal could feel the other man’s cock leap against the crack of his ass. He hated it, but his dick – never particularly discerning – responded.

In the mirror, their eyes locked. Unable to move, unable to look away, Neal watched Vincent unbutton his jacket, then the shirt buttons across his chest, easing his cool hand underneath the fabric. 

“You’re such a whore. You let that idiot Picah fuck you, you’d let anyone fuck you if they’ve got the cash. You always did.” Adler’s fingers found his nipple and pinched it. “You love this, you love giving it up for a few bucks. When you were in prison, how much did your ass cost?” He kept tormenting that bit of flesh, pulling and twisting. Neal hated it, hated himself more for how much it aroused him. 

“You’re such a delicious fuck.” Vincent rocked against him, keeping up a steady stream of filth. “You love this, you bitch. All those nights in prison, did you jerk yourself off thinking about the things I used to do to you?” Adler whispered, low and nasty. “Did any of those cons, when they grunted over your ass, make you feel half this good?”

Neal wanted to tell Adler that whatever sex he had in prison was ten times better than getting fucked by him, but the words stuck in his throat. Vincent’s other hand was at his belt, opening his fly, dragging his cock out.

“You’re nothing more than a cunt, to be used and thrown away. Just like Kate.”

That should have been a trigger for Neal; he should have been able to marshal some anger, but … nothing except reluctant desire. All he could concentrate on was the feel of Adler’s cool palm cradling his hot cock, his thumb digging in under his foreskin, stroking…

And then a moment of spinning dizziness. One second he was standing at the sink, the next, Vincent maneuvered them into a toilet stall, the door slamming shut behind them. Neal whimpered as those cool, terrible hands left him to engage the lock.

“You slut, you whore – you want this.”

Neal whimpered again. He did. He would have fallen to his knees if Vincent wanted that. Instead, he pushed him against the marble wall, the smooth stone icy against his over-heated cheek. One hand wormed its way back under his clothing, finding his other nipple; the other hand yanked his pants and briefs down past his hips. 

He felt Adler’s cock, hard and hot, prodding him between his ass and Neal whispered “No.”

“You really think I’d fuck you bare? You’re used goods, Neal.”

Neal wanted to fight back, he wanted to make this end, but he couldn’t. Whether it was true desire or the old need that Adler stirred in him, he couldn’t say. All his knew was that he was going to let himself be used, and he would enjoy it. The way he always had with Vincent, and the way he always would.

Adler’s cock rode between his buttocks, slicked by nothing more than the man’s precome and Neal’s sweat. Vincent was still tormenting his tit, his thumbnail digging into the flesh. But his other hand was braced against the wall, letting Neal’s cock rut against the cool marble.

Neal wasn’t sure who was moaning, but the sounds were loud and they echoed off all the hard surfaces. He didn’t care because the pleasure was too sweet and too dreadful, and all of a sudden, he was coming, spilling out onto the wall, staining his shirt and jacket. Vincent came to, with a hard grunt, his hot semen splashing over Neal’s ass and lower back.

He leaned against the wall, too weak-kneed to stand on his own. 

“Here you go, Neal. You’ve earned this, at least.” Vincent shoved something between the crack of his ass. 

Neal remained motionless, not turning as the stall door opened and Adler left. He listened to the water run, then the outer door open and shut. He was alone as he cleaned himself, pulling Alder’s cash out of his ass and flushed it down the toilet. He finished dressing. The come stains were mostly on the shirt, not the jacket, and the wetness was unpleasant against his hot skin.

He left the stall and stared at himself in the mirror – back where he was just a few short minutes ago. Neal washed his hands again, combed his fingers through his hair, buttoned his jacket, bolted back to the stall and vomited.

Neal emptied his stomach until his body hurt from the dry heaves. He realized that there was no way he could go back out there, sit with Daniel through the rest of this endless evening and then have sex with the man.

Not tonight, not after this. All he wanted to do was go home and forget the world existed, for it to be tomorrow when he could forget that this happened.

He washed up yet again and returned to the dining room. Someone was at the dais, talking about the virtues of supporting the New York ballet scene. Neal couldn’t give a damn. He sat down and took a drink of whatever was in the glass in front of him, thankfully it was water.

The speaker finally shut up and the evening was done. Neal sat there, too weary and too heartsick to move.

“Nick, you okay?” Daniel touched his shoulder and he tried not to flinch.

He couldn’t lie. “I don’t think so.” Neal swallowed hard. Even the water he had sipped was making him ill. “I need to get out of here. I’m sorry.”

Daniel, for the first time in Neal’s acquaintance, seemed aware of someone else’s distress. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

“Dan – “ 

“Your home. I know that I’m a self-centered ass most of the time, but I can see that you’re sick and you need to get to bed.”

Neal was never as grateful for another person’s kindness as he was right now. “I’ll call Elizabeth, tell her to refund your fee for tonight.”

“Oh, hush. I got just what I paid her for. And I got to meet Vincent Adler. When you were in the can, his friend came over with Adler’s business card and told me to call and set up an appointment. He’s definitely interested in the sword. So – this was a great night. We’ll celebrate when you’re feeling better.”

Daniel retrieved their coats and by the time they made it to the hotel lobby, the Rolls was waiting. His good behavior lasted the entire twenty minute ride back to Yorkville. “Feel better soon, Nick. I’ll call Elizabeth in the morning and tell her what a great time I had, so don’t worry, okay?

“Yeah, okay. And Dan – you’re a good guy.”

At the unexpected compliment, the man’s face lit up like a kid’s on Christmas morning. “So are you, Nick. So are you.”

Neal made it up to the apartment. Tonight it felt like home. He went to the bathroom and stripped with little regard for the expensive tuxedo. Right now, he never wanted to see it again. The water was just shy of scalding when he got into the shower, and Neal didn’t know if he’d ever feel clean again.

Instead of trying to forget about what happened, he forced himself to remember every moment, every sensation. His feelings for Adler had always been confused. From the first there was a wary fascination, like prey might be fascinated by the predator stalking it, then disgust even as he kept crawling back to the man’s bed.

He didn’t love Adler; he certainly didn’t like him, and whatever respect he once gave him became tinged with contempt. But there was something in Neal that responded to him, it was like a switch would go off in his brain at a certain command, a tone of voice, a look.

When he started working for Vincent, he was too young, too inexperienced to realize what it was. But he soon learned, and learned well. Too well, it seemed.

Neal rinsed and turned off the water. He wrapped himself in a towel, retrieved his cell phone, but left his suit and shirt in a pile on the bathroom floor, too tired, too ill to care. He was supposed to meet Peter at two-thirty, when they were both done with their respective assignments – or more appropriately – assignations. Walking into his bedroom, he sent Peter a text, tossed the towel onto a chair and climbed into bed. The sheets were cool against his skin, the room was dark and finally his brain stilled.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

For the first time since they’d met, Peter pitied Neal Caffrey. He’d known Daniel Picah for well over a decade, and the man had gotten worse as he got older. This wasn’t the first time that he’d encountered a client from his other world, which was one of the reasons why he always used his real first time. The clients Elizabeth set him up with were usually smart enough to realize that if someone called him Peter Burke, they wouldn’t need an explanation. Though there were a few particularly dumb bunnies…

Dan’s parents had been his clients first, but they had been killed in a plane crash, leaving their son with too much money and not enough sense. Peter had been one of the estate’s trustees and over the years, had managed to corral the man’s excesses, but couldn’t cure him of bad taste. When Daniel had turned thirty, he inherited everything and Peter’s duties were discharged. It had been about five years since he’d seen him,

Peter had a hard time digesting the coincidence of him being Neal’s “Mr. Wonderful,” not that the world was so small but that he had never figured for Dan being gay. But his own gaydar was not infallible.

Vincent touched his arm, drawing his attention back to him. 

He was also a man that Peter couldn’t quite figure out. Since he began working for Elizabeth, he’d been hired by many wealthy men, but no one in the same stratospheric category as Vincent Adler. From what he knew, there were few men as rich as Adler and even fewer who were as ruthless.

On the face of it, there was no earthly reason why he had to hire a companion. After their first “date”; however, Vincent explained it and it made sense. Sort of.

_“I have no intention of forming any permanent attachments.”_

_They were relaxing in Vincent’s pied-à-terre – a relatively modest terraced apartment on Central Park West, after a performance of Boito’s “Mephistopheles”. Peter, who hated opera, spent the evening doing trigonometry in his head to stay awake. He was paying for that now, having a hard time focusing on anything except sine, cosine and tangent. Vincent’s bald pronouncement snapped his attention out of the mathematical._

_“Sorry?”_

_“You’re probably wondering why I’ve hired you.”_

_“The thought had crossed my mind,” Peter replied cautiously._

_Vincent’s smile was remarkably shark-like. “Like I said, I have no interest in having a wife – or a husband, for that matter. Dating, in the traditional sense, leads to all sorts of expectations, and keeping someone – let’s use the term ‘mistress’ even though it’s far too gender specific – isn’t practical.”_

_Peter understood what he was saying. “Since you’re not married, there would always be some level of expectation.”_

_“Right. Hiring your services, however, eliminates that. If we keep our relationship to a series of transactions, I’m not going to worry that you’ll get clingy and jealous. You’ll have your own interests, your own life.”_

_Peter thought that this logic was flawed, but said nothing. He had no interest in permanency, either especially not with a client, even one as wealthy and handsome as Vincent Adler. Come to think of it, even if their paths had crossed in a less mercenary fashion, he still wouldn’t have that urge._

_“So, we’re clear, Peter? I hire you for an evening now and then, and you treat me as you’d treat any of your professional engagements.”_

_“I’m not sure what you mean by that?”_

_“You let me fuck you, collect your fee and leave.”_

_Ah. Never one to fully close off his options, Peter idly noted, “Or you’d let me fuck you, then pay my fee, and I’d leave.”_

_That seemed to throw Adler off. He stood there, blinking, as if the thought of bottoming had never occurred to him at any point in his life. Even in the half light of the library, Peter could see Vincent swallow and lick his lips. “Yes, well, that’s always a possibility.”_

After that, Peter figured that he’d be shown the door and he’d never hear from the man again. El would probably give him a hard time about it, she was charging Adler a fortune, and he was paying it without complaint. But Peter was wrong.

Sex that night wasn’t particularly great, just on the par for most first encounters. Peter didn’t naturally bottom, but he did when he was paid for it. What came afterwards, however, was unexpected. Peter had excused himself and went to shower. He was almost done when the bathroom door opened and Adler joined him. Without a word, he dropped to his knees and started sucking him. Peter leaned back against the tile and let the water cascade as Vincent’s hot mouth worked at his dick. It was clear that he’d rarely given a blow job, but Peter gave him credit for his enthusiasm, and he even found the man’s inexpertness arousing. Maybe it was the incongruity of this master of the universe fumbling as he tried to give pleasure instead of receiving it.

They didn’t talk about it, but when Peter was dressed and walking out the door, Vincent put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “You’ll be available every Wednesday night from now on, without fail.” It wasn’t a question.

Peter thought it was amusing how this man, who, just a few hours ago, made such a point of telling him that he didn’t form ties and wanted only an occasional companion, was now demanding his company. He nodded. “Just let Elizabeth know, she’ll get everything set up. And remember, I do have a forty-eight hour cancellation requirement. You’ll be charged for my time if you don’t call before Tuesday morning.” He wondered if Adler would appreciate how he kept this on a commercial footing.

Adler just nodded and let him go.

They had been seeing each other for over a year before Neal Caffrey interrupted his well-ordered life. Nothing Vincent did bothered him, per se, but as time passed, he couldn’t help but feel that Adler was the one growing attached. Wednesday nights were sacrosanct, but lately he’d been trying to book Peter for days at a time, wanting him to travel with him, not only to his home in Connecticut, but to Europe and Asia. Although Elizabeth had put some pressure on him, she allowed Peter to keep his schedule open.

Tonight had been one of the few evenings when he had agreed to see Vincent on a Friday, and he wasn’t even sure why he had agreed. Maybe it was knowing that Neal would be at the same event. It gave him a perverse pleasure to see Neal in action, reminding him of _that_ evening.

“You’re bored out of your skull, aren’t you?” Vincent’s smooth voice interrupted his musings.

He gave him a wry grin. “Yeah, sorry. Just thinking about what Dan said, back there.”

“Picah? That head-case?”

“He’s a little, well …”

“Crazy?”

“I was going to say, OCD. But he doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.”

“So why were you wasting your time on him?”

“Just thinking about the sword he was talking about. The _Go Yoshihiro_. I had helped broker his purchase of it about ten years ago. The guy selling it knew it was valuable – his uncle had ‘found’ it after the Japanese surrendered, but he didn’t have any official provenance. It could be the missing _Honjo Masamune_ , a Japanese national treasure. Returning it would be quite a coup for your foundation.”

All Vincent would say was “I’ll consider it.” 

Peter dropped the subject and tried to enjoy the meal, except that he was all too conscious of Neal, a dozen feet away. This wasn’t the first time they’d been at the same event, but it was the first time their paths had crossed directly. His gut, usually more reliable than his gaydar, told him that something was wrong. Neal was usually more outgoing, and even if Daniel Picah was a bit of a social idiot, Neal was smooth enough to cover for him. Except that this time, he seemed to deliberately stay in the background. Whether it was his own presence, or something else, he’d get an answer later, either when the met at the coffee shop or at home.

The servers came around with coffee and tea a few minutes before the Ballet’s chief fundraiser took the podium to thank everyone for their generous contributions and exhort them to give more. Vincent looked back at the table where Neal and Daniel were sitting, seemed to come to a decision and handed Peter one of his business cards. 

“Do me a favor, give this Picah, tell him to call my office to make an appointment. I’ve got a few contacts with the Japanese Embassy, and if it is a missing National Treasure, we’ll broker the return.” Vincent got up. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Peter did as requested, and spent a few minutes chatting with Daniel, or rather, listening to him drone on about a dozen recent acquisitions. Peter didn’t know whether to be amused or dismayed. He wondered how long it was going to be before Daniel ran through the considerable amount of money his parents left him. 

It was difficult to break free, but he excused himself when he spotted Vincent heading back to their table. 

He wondered where Neal was, but then and again, Neal was a grown man who could take care of himself. They were at a fundraiser for the New York City Ballet, after all. What could happen to him in such refined company?

Vincent seemed unusually relaxed when Peter returned to the tables, his smile was broader, his manner much more expansive than usual in these settings. He almost jumped when Vincent’s hand curved around his thigh, and briefly cupped his groin. Of all the gestures he ever expected this man to make, a semi-public groping was the last on the list.

He looked at Adler, who seemed riveted by the speaker. When the man finished, Vincent was in no hurry to leave; he lingered to chat with several society matrons, even flirting with one unfortunately attired debutante who blushed and stammered for a good five minutes.

The room was almost empty by the time that he signaled Peter to go fetch their coats and have the car brought around. Peter scanned the room; of course Daniel and Neal were long gone.

Back at Vincent’s apartment, they indulged in the usual post-date ritual: a bumper of warmed brandy. Privately, Peter thought the process was a little too Continental, a little too precious, but then Peter Burke would have preferred a cold beer to anything else. Peter Lassen’s tastes were a little more refined.

They touched glasses – another ritual – and the interrogation began. 

Adler was smiling at him, triumphant, like he’d just won a prize. “So, Peter, your chickens have come home to roost.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You’re other life – the one you use to hide what you _really_ do – is out in the open. What do you tell your family about your nights out on the town.”

 _Ah, so he was looking for leverage._ “No family. And I really have nothing to hide. I’m a CPA and a certified financial adviser.”

“And you’re also a paid whore.”

It was interesting how Vincent seemed to relish that last word. “And you’re paying me for my services.”

Vincent started at him for a moment and there was something in his eyes that made the hair on the back Peter’s neck stand up. But the moment passed and Adler laughed. “You’re right, and I’m sorry.”

“No apologies needed. I know what I am; I’m not ashamed of it. No need to pretend otherwise.”

Vincent sipped his brandy. “I can’t figure you out. I’ve been very tempted to have your prints run, to find out who you really are.”

“And what you’d find would be extremely uninteresting, Vincent.”

“Somehow, I doubt that, Peter. You are a puzzle to me, now more than ever.”

He laughed. “Then I’m one of those puzzles without a picture – all of those tiny pieces are white. What you see is what you get.”

“Hmm.” Vincent put down his snifter and held out his hand. “Come on, it’s still early. I want to fuck you.”

Adler had that look in his eye. Peter, a bit irritated by his not-so-subtle attempts at blackmail, turned the tables. He wasn’t in the mood to bottom and something about Vincent’s challenging look told him he wasn’t going to have to. He stood up and took the other man’s arm, looming over him. “No, tonight I’m going to be the one fucking you.”

Vincent’s breath caught, and standing this close to him, Peter could see the desire in his eyes. They had played this game a few times, and Peter had to admit that it gave him a rush to dominate this master of the universe. 

“I have something new, something special, if you want…” Adler’s voice was breathy, almost tentative, as if he were afraid of turning Peter off. He licked his lips.

It always amazed Peter how quickly Adler adopted the submissive role, how eager he was to please Peter, how much he wanted Peter’s approval. “Show me.” Peter commanded.

Adler led him to a bedroom – not the one he used when he fucked Peter, but master suite, where Peter took control. He went to the closet and brought out a box. 

“Put it on the bed, Vincent.”

He complied. Peter’s commands continued. 

“Now, take off your jacket and vest.” It was interesting to see how badly his hands shook. Peter didn’t give him any quarter. “Hurry up.” 

Vincent disrobed according to Peter’s instructions, and started to remove his shirt.

“Did I tell you to do that?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No sir, you didn’t tell me to take my shirt off.”

Peter had to smile. Vincent had, it seemed, a natural core of submission. “I should punish you for that, but I think, under the circumstances, I’ll let it slide.”

Vincent nodded, keeping his eyes down.

“Take off your shoes and socks.” Peter thought about adding some ridiculously impossible command, but decided against it. They really weren’t Dom/sub, and he wasn’t sure – even after all this time – how far he could push him before Adler would push back.

He walked around Vincent, stalking him. “Are you going to submit to me?”

“Yes. Yes, sir.”

“You like the thought of bending to my will, giving me what I want.” Peter leaned in, thoroughly engaged in the role now. “You like it when I top you. You want your paid whore to take you, to fuck you. You want me to shove my dick up your ass and make you cry.”

Of course he did. Adler’s own cock was tenting the front of his trousers, practically pulsing with desire. Peter cupped it, squeezing gently, and Adler moaned. He squeezed again, not so gently and that moan became a panting whimper. Peter let go. 

He opened the box on the bed and his eyes went wide. Peter had expected a toy, maybe a butt plug, maybe a pair of cuff, a gag. He wasn’t expecting all of that, plus clamps and a cock ring. He picked up the hard plastic plug; it was as big as his two fists put together, ridged at the base. Something designed for someone with a lot more experience than his client, but …

He shoved it under Vincent’s nose. “You’re going to take this and you’re going to let me open you up like a ripe peach.” 

Vincent licked it, as if he thought his spit would be enough lube. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t use any lube. I can just split you, make you bleed.”

Adler reared back, going pale. 

_Ah, so that’s the boundary._ He took the plug away, tossing it on the bed. “Maybe not. I think I want to breach your ass with my dick. You’re always so tight, like a virgin.” A part of Peter, the ordinary man who used to counsel people and companies about their finances, rolled his eyes at the dialogue, but Vincent always took so much pleasure in this type of humiliating dialogue. He was flush with arousal again, looking up to Peter, licking his lips.

He pulled Vincent’s tie loose, dropping in on the floor, then ripped his shirt open. The studs went flying, one pinging sharply against the furniture. “Maybe I should make you crawl around, picking them up.” Peter went back to the box. “Or maybe I should just make you wear these.”

He held up the nipple clamps. “I’m going to torture your tits, Vincent. I’m going to make them hurt, and you’re going to like it.” Peter spun him around, so they were front to back and began tugging at Adler’s nipples. The man had a decent physique, not rock hard but well maintained. His tits were tight and responsive, and Peter enjoyed playing with them. He always enjoyed nipple work.

Vincent writhed against him and Peter slapped his flank. “Did I say you could move? Did I give you permission to rub yourself against my cock? You’re just a fucking cat in heat; you want it so bad you can’t control yourself.”

Peter continued to pluck at Vincent’s tits, scuffing the rough edge of his cuticle against the hard buds before pulling and twisting them. They were both getting a thrill out of this, and despite his command not to move, Adler was writhing against him, his ass humping against Peter’s groin. He escalated, putting the nipple clamps on, tightening them slowly. He watched Vincent’s face in the mirror, making sure he wasn’t going too far. Vincent loved this, riding Peter’s fingers and he screwed the clamps down as far as he could.

“How pretty you look, all decorated like a Hunt’s Point hooker.” He tugged on the chain, the flesh distended and Vincent hissed. Peter wasn’t sure, though, what aroused his client more – the pain and submission or the degrading talk.

Holding on to Vincent’s hips, he bit down on the man’s earlobe and commanded, “Undo your pants; take your cock out, slut.” 

This time, Adler was careful to obey the limits of his instruction, opening his fly with shaking hands, dragging out a monstrously erect cock. Peter didn’t think he’d ever seen the man so aroused.

“I bet you want me to touch your cock, you want to ride my hand and come all over yourself like a teenage boy.” No answer was required as Adler’s cock twitched and jerked. “But I’m not going to. I’m going to make you suffer. Get the cock ring out of the box.” 

Adler walked, stiff-legged, back to the bed and retrieved the loop of pliable silicone, handing it to Peter with a pleading look.

“I was going to enjoy putting this on you, but somehow I think you’d enjoy it more.” He handed it back to Vincent. “Put it on; roll it all the way down to your balls.” He obeyed.

Peter examined Adler’s now-bound cock, giving it an experimental stroke. “Good – maybe next time I’ll get you a bright pink one with an attached butt plug. You can try and try and try to make yourself come and fail miserably.”

Adler whimpered again. It was definitely the verbal abuse he liked. 

“You’re a failure, you know that. You need to come and you can only do it if you pay for it. You need whores. You are sick and twisted and pathetic, aren’t you?”

Vincent didn’t answer and Peter slapped his cock.

“Aren’t you?”

Adler nodded.

“Say it.”

“I’m pathetic, I need … I need to pay for sex. I can’t come unless I pay for it.”

“Good.” A little praise would keep things rolling. “On your knees, that’s where a pathetic freak like you belongs.” He stepped away from Adler.

Obedience was instant. Vincent dropped to the floor and opened his mouth. In the year or so that Adler had been paying him for sex, he’d topped the man maybe a dozen times. But Adler seemed to develop a preference for sucking his cock and had gotten better at it. Tonight, though, Peter was going to try something different. He opened his own pants and pulled out his cock, cradling it in his palm.

“Crawl.”

Adler shuffled over to him and Peter smacked his dick against his face, leaving streaks of precome across his cheek. He rubbed it against the man’s face, trailing his cock head against his eyelids, his brows, down the side of that too-patrician nose before smacking his face again. He held Vincent’s head still. “I’m going to use you like the cunt you are, so no dirty whore’s tricks, no sucking, no humming. Just open your mouth and make this last.” 

Peter fucked Adler’s face, his hips lazily rocking back, taking his time. He was aroused but this whole exercise left him mentally cold. He was dominant, but the humiliation he inflicted on Adler was not something he particularly enjoyed. He’d do it, he’d come, collect his fee and leave.

Adler moaned, bringing his attention back to the task at hand. “If you can still make sounds, you can take more of my dick in your mouth. Peter thrust deeper, faster, only pulling out when he started to feel his balls tingle with the precursor to orgasm. There was no way he’d be up for a second round, and Vincent wouldn’t be pleased if he wasn’t fucked in the ass tonight.

“On the bed, slut. But crawl.” Adler fumbled to the bed, still half-dressed. Peter jeered at him, “Not very graceful, are you.”

He took a condom out of his wallet, stripped of his clothes, and rolled it on. He went over to the bed where Adler waited, face down, tuxedo pants and boxers around his knees, the torn shirt tangled up at his shoulder blades.

Peter slapped Vincent’s ass twice, hard. “Where’s the slick, you prissy bitch?” In his head, Peter blushed, he sounded worse than the cheesiest porno ever made. But Adler loved it, bucking back, trying to make contact with him. 

“The night table. There’s lube in there.”

And there was, the type Peter preferred – silicone based, tasted nasty but was the best for anal sex. This and the toys made him wonder how long Vincent had been thinking about this scene. 

Peter took his time with the prep, stretching Adler’s tight hole, all the while keeping up a stream of filthy, degrading talk. Vincent was rocking back and forth, fucking himself on Peter’s hand, whimpering and whining. “You’re such a bitch in heat. You’d fuck my hand if I let you.”

Which he wasn’t going to do. He had limits, even with clients, and fisting was on the other side of that line. Wiping his fingers against Vincent’s sweaty back, Peter slapped his ass again and positioned his cock against the now-stretched hole and pushed. He wasn’t gentle, he didn’t go slowly. He just sank in as far as he could go.

“Fuck yourself – do the work, slut.”

Absolutely obedient, Vincent rocked himself back and forth, slamming back hard. It didn’t take much to put Peter over the edge. He clamped his hands on the other man’s hips and held him still as he took over, whipping his own hips back and forth, riding out the pleasure.

Peter leaned over Vincent, exhausted. But he wasn’t done, not just yet. Adler was still hard and for the first time that night, Peter touched his dick. Unwilling to start again, Peter pulled out of the other man with little ceremony and started to stroke his partner, knowing that with the ring still on, it would be difficult for him to come, but not impossible.

“Should I leave you like this?”

“No, please, Peter. Don’t. I need to come.” 

“You’re pathetic, you know that.”

“Yes, please.” Vincent was whining and thrusting into Peter’s fist. It took some work, but he was able to pull an orgasm out of him. Adler ejaculated onto his belly with a shout. Peter just was relieved it was over.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Adler didn’t move as Peter left the bedroom and headed to the shower. His body and mind completely satisfied for the first time in a long time. These forays into the sinkhole of submission were rare, but so pleasurable. He had recognized, from the first, that Peter was like him, a natural dominant, and he enjoyed the man’s submission to him. Twisting the natural order of things, perverting those needs, that was what he did best. And it was a natural extension of his nature to twist and pervert his own needs.

Peter came out of the bathroom and came over to the bed. “Are you okay?” 

He might be a whore, but he certainly had manners. 

“I’m fine. Thank you. Your tip is on the bar in the den.” Best to keep things on a commercial footing for now. But that was going to change soon enough.

Light bloomed and died as Peter left the room and shut the door behind him. Vincent relaxed and let sleep claim him. His last conscious thoughts were delicious; Peter fucking him as he plowed into Neal Caffrey’s sweet ass or maybe watching as Peter shoved is dick down Neal’s throat, making him cry and gag and choke. His satiated cock twitched at the memory of the humiliation he forced on Neal in the bathroom. 

Maybe Peter would like to play those games on Neal, too.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was close to two-thirty AM when Peter left Adler’s apartment and headed for The Lantern on Broadway near 68th Street. The coffee shop was one of those traditional New York institutions where you could get any type of coffee you wanted, provided it came out of the automatic drip coffee maker behind the counter. The brew was terrible, but it was always hot and breakfast was on the menu twenty-four hours a day.

Peter slid into a booth facing the doorway and waited for Neal. They began this arrangement a week after Neal had moved it, although there was no reason for it, other than it was a nice way to reset the normal in his life. Most nights, meeting him here was a convenience, a way to spend a little more time on neutral ground with someone he liked a little too much. 

But tonight, the scene with Adler left him off-kilter. One might think that doing what he did would mean lots of kinky, high-risk encounters, but the truth of it was that what most of his clients wanted plain vanilla sex. Scenes like tonight were rare, and it left him in a weird headspace. He was good at compartmentalizing, but sometimes it took a little more effort than usual.

Nothing, though, that a little coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs couldn’t fix. Seeing Neal would help, too, probably more that the coffee and eggs. Not that they’d talk about work, which was a rule he was adamant about following. Just enjoying his company, a little light conversation, it reoriented him, made it easier to separate the man he pretended to be with the man he really was. 

And to be honest, just thinking about Neal made the scene with Adler recede into unimportance. It hadn’t taken long for him to realize that his new apartment mate was going to change his life, upset the quiet steadiness of his days. He resented it at first, and even now, after two months, Peter wasn’t quite sure why he gave into Elizabeth’s suggestion and let Caffrey move in. He didn’t need a roommate, he didn’t _want_ a roommate, but there was something about Neal – and it wasn’t just the memory of their spectacular encounter – that spoke to the empty part of his soul. 

Peter knew he should have asked Elizabeth for at least a few basic details about the man he was giving house space too, but he didn’t. In the back of his mind, Peter figured that he could have a background check run himself if it became necessary. But as the days became weeks that turned into months, he got to know a little more about Neal and he liked what he saw. There was a deep vulnerability beneath the charming surface, and an intelligence that almost bordered on genius. Going around his back, digging for his history seemed like an invasion of privacy. 

El said he was okay, and Peter knew her long enough to know that she wouldn’t risk her business by hiring an axe-murderer. But someday soon, Peter was going to have a long talk with Neal. There were too many holes, too many gaps in what he had told Peter about himself that made Peter wonder just who he really was.

Waiting for Neal, he could admit it to himself that he was falling for Neal Caffrey. It showed in the craziness of meeting him at an all-night coffee show after they both spent the evening fucking for money. Except that he liked this hour, he liked seeing Neal when the other man was unguarded, open, less wary. Maybe because it reminded him of the night Peter Cullinan spent talking to Nick Halden. Maybe in his head, he was sitting here and drinking bad coffee with Nick, not Neal. Maybe he was in love with an phantom.

Maybe he was crazy.

Actually, he was sure he was crazy. He knew that Neal was attracted to him, and his gut told him that the attraction was real, not some holdover fascination from an extraordinary sexual encounter. Yet, every night he went to bed by himself. Every day he gently put Neal off. Every moment he spent in the man’s company was torture of the most refined sort.

He didn’t understand himself. But then, he was a wealthy man who got paid for fucking. What was the sense in that?

“Hon, you sure you don’t want to order?” The waitress, Stella, refilled his coffee from the orange rimmed pot. The decaf was only five percent less likely to burn a hole in his gut.

“No, I’ll wait.” It was a quarter to three and Neal was late. Another ten minutes passed before he thought to check his phone. _Shit._ The damn thing was still on mute. Neal had texted him over three hours ago. 

_Not feeling well, didn’t go to Dan’s. Came home._

Well, that explained why Neal wasn’t here. Peter dropped a five on the table and left. The coffee shop was conveniently close to the subway, but he was lucky. A cab was discharging a fare in front of the shop and Peter hopped in. At three in the morning, the cross-town trip took less than ten minutes. 

The unease Peter had sensed earlier in the evening magnified when he entered the dark apartment. Neal’s bedroom door was shut and he didn’t want to disturb him if he was sick. He noticed, though, that the light was in the bathroom Neal used and went to see why. Peter was surprised to see that Neal, usually the most fastidious of men, had left his clothes piled on the floor. 

The mess annoyed him, but it worried him too. Neal had been inordinately excited about buying a new tuxedo, dithering between this Tom Ford and a Briony. Both were ridiculously expensive, but Neal had argued that a good tuxedo was essential. Privately, Peter thought that five grand for a monkey suit was insane, but given their profession and who they “socialized” with, he could understand.

He should have stepped over the pile of clothes, leaving it for Neal to deal with in the morning, except that Neal wouldn’t have left this mess if he wasn’t sick. He picked everything up, putting the suit to one side and dumping the rest in hamper. Peter sighed and pulled Neal’s shirt out of the pile. That needed to go to the cleaners with his suit. But something caught his eye, an odd yellowish stain on the shirttail.

He fingered the stiff fabric, recognizing instantly what the stain was: dried semen. 

Alarm bells went off in his gut as pieces fell into place: Neal’s odd behavior before dinner, his absence from the table when he was talking with Daniel, his “illness” afterwards. Peter took the shirt into his office and turned on his desk lamp, examining the fabric under the bright light. There were stains on the front, and the back, and stretching at the buttonholes across the chest.

Peter sat back, drawing conclusions he didn’t want to. And an earlier thought came back to haunt him, _What could happen to him in such refined company?_ A lot, apparently. 

He folded the shirt and turn off the lamp. His head hurt, his heart hurt, but he wondered if he was seeing things that weren’t there. There could be a dozen benign explanations for this – starting with a consensual encounter.

Peter went to bed but it was close to dawn before he slept.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal woke, disoriented, with an aching head and a sour stomach. For a few moments he wasn’t sure where he was. The bed was too soft for prison, there was way too much light for one of Mozzie’s safe houses (he only shared the underground facilities these days), and the scent of brewing coffee made him realize that this wasn’t a hotel, either.

The memory of last night came rushing back – Adler in the men’s room, Daniel taking him home. Home – Peter’s apartment. With that recognition came another realization. He was safe. Whatever happened last night wasn’t a precursor to anything. He’d just have to take care not to cross Adler’s path again.

Neal pushed back the covers, shocked to realize that he was naked. Prison had cured him of the any preference to sleeping so vulnerable. He must have been really out of it last night.

A check of the bedside clock showed in was almost eleven. Peter had probably been awake for hours, and would give him a dirty look when he went into the kitchen. That man never seemed to need much sleep, up at seven every damn morning, no matter what time he got home.

Neal went to the bathroom, and saw his tuxedo neatly piled on the counter. He vaguely remembered letting his clothes drop on the floor before getting into the shower and washing Adler’s stain off. He dressed and went in search of the coffee that woke him. He went in search of Peter.

True to form, Peter was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the Saturday portion of the Sunday times. But he looked remarkably disheveled, deep circles under his eyes, signs of strain at the corner of his mouth.

“How are you feeling?” The question seemed fraught with subtext, or maybe he was projecting.

“Much better – sorry about bailing on you last night. I think there was something in something I ate. Or maybe just a twelve-hour bug.” He smiled casually and poured himself a cup of coffee. “You have a good evening?” That thought gave him pause, Peter had been Adler’s companion that night and his brain shied away from the thought of Vincent doing to Peter what he used to do – what he did – to Neal.

“My evening was just fine.” Peter’s bland tone gave anything away. “Just a little worried about you.”

“I’m okay, and thanks for picking up after me. I won’t be such a slob again.” 

“Don’t worry about it, you were ill.”

“But I’m fine now.”

Peter gave him a searching look, his face far too grave for Neal’s comfort. But then he asked a completely unexpected question. “If you’re free until Monday, would you like to go away for the weekend?”

Neal’s heart leaped at the offer. “I actually think I’m at loose ends today and tomorrow, but I thought you had that thing at the Met?”

“Nah – it got cancelled. Simon decided to go to Ibiza and I told Elizabeth not to rebook me. I could use some time away. Hope you’d like to join me.” 

The offer was put casually, but Neal couldn’t help but hope. “Where do you want to go?”

“There’s a quiet place I know outside of Lake George, about a four hour drive from here. Good service, good food, nice rooms. It might be too cold out to paint, but you could do some sketching if you wanted.” 

Neal was intrigued, Peter sounded so diffident. “I’ll pack my sketchbook and pencils.”

But Peter wasn’t quite done selling the weekend, even though Neal was sold. “Do you ride?”

“Horseback? Yeah?”

“They have a stable and some nice trails.”

“I don’t – I can’t picture you on horseback.” Neal chuckled, but suddenly aroused by the idea of Peter in riding clothes.

“Oh, yeah. I ride, even did show jumping in my long-gone youth.”

That image was even better. Peter in boots and very tight jodhpurs, carrying a crop, wearing leather gloves. He turned back to the counter, hiding his sudden erection.

“So, does any of this appeal?”

“Yeah, very much. When can we leave?” 

“It’s a little before noon now. Can you be ready by one?”

“Yeah – are we renting a car?”

“Nope – no need. I’ve got one garaged.”

“You’re just full of surprises today, aren’t you?” Neal wondered what Peter drove, when he drove. Probably something practical.

It wasn’t. Neal waited at the curb, overnight bag slung over his shoulder, while Peter pulled up in a classic Corvette Sting Ray.

Peter grinned at him from the driver’s seat. “I know it’s not really practical for living in the city, but I can’t bear to part with it.” 

“No need to apologize for driving a ‘73 ‘Vette. Where did you get it?”

“My college graduation present. I spent the next three summers restoring it. It was impractical then, too.”

Peter wasn’t inclined to conversation as they drove north out of the city. Neal had a connoisseur’s appreciation for fine automobiles, and while the Europeans often looked down at the American upstart, a Corvette, particularly this vintage, was a sweet ride. “Don’t suppose you’d let me drive?”

“Can you handle this?”

“I once drove a Ferrarri Enzo from Maranello to Geneva.”

“Oh?”

“It was a delivery run.” Neal wasn’t going to tell Peter that he was delivering the car to someone who hadn’t actually purchased it.

“Okay.” A little north of Tarrytown, Peter pulled off of the highway and let Neal get behind the wheel, a remarkably generous gesture.

The power felt good, and as they left the suburbs behind, Neal opened her up.

“You know, if we get a ticket, it’s going to be on your head, not mine.” Peter frowned. “You do have insurance, right?”

“Ummm, no need. I don’t own a car.”

“You have a license, though?”

Neal kept his eyes on the road, but he could help but lick his lips. “Actually, I kind of let it lapse. Haven’t lived where I needed to drive.” Well, for four years, Neal George Caffrey didn’t. His license had been up for renewal when he was in Sing-Sing, and this time around, he’d need an eye test and a new picture. That was just too much to manage from the confines of a maximum security prison. Nick Halden, however, had a very current driver’s license. Several, actually. Even one from New York State. Peter didn’t need to know that.

“Do me a favor, Neal…”

He figured that Peter was going to tell him to pull over and give him back the wheel. 

“Keep it under the speed limit, okay? Bailing you out of jail isn’t on my agenda this weekend.”

Neal smiled, throttled down, and kept it under sixty-five. “Sure.”

The inn Peter had booked was a hell of a lot more than Neal expected (he somehow had the idea that they’d be staying in a converted farmhouse or a full service version of a bed and breakfast). Instead, this place was replica of a French chateau – probably built as some millionaire’s cottage before the world got small.

“A nice quiet place, Peter?”

Peter just shrugged and took the keys from Neal, only to toss them to the valet.

Neal knew that nothing was ever completely without problems – it was all how you managed them. At check-in, the receptionist was terribly sorry, but the two-bedroom suite Peter had reserved had been double booked and those guests had already checked in. Would they have a problem taking a lakeside suite with a king-sized bed, a hot tub on the terrace and complimentary Champagne? It was an upgrade.

Peter looked like he was about to make a stink, which seemed very unlike him. Neal stepped in, “Yes, that would be fine, if you include two horseback rentals for tomorrow.”

The woman smiled in relief. “Yes, that I can do.” She signaled to the bellhop and asked him to show them to their room. “Your bags will be brought up right away.”

Peter didn’t say anything until they got to the room, staring out the window at the darkening sky while they waited for their luggage.

Neal, however, explored the suite. The bed was huge, and if he couldn’t seduce Peter, they could practically sleep in separate time zones. The promised hot tub was already bubbling and with a flick of a switch, the gas fireplace burst into cheery flames. All in all, a very pleasant and romantic place to spend the next few nights.

Their luggage arrived, and on the heels of the bell boy, a waiter came with the complimentary bottle of Champagne, and from the orange label, Neal guessed it to be Veuve Cliquot. He was right. Peter tipped both men and shut the door behind them.

“Neal …”

“What’s the matter?” As if he didn’t know. “Are you afraid for your virtue?” Neal’s tone was lightly mocking.

“No, but I’m worried about yours.” 

Neal stopped in the middle of removing the foil around the top of the bottle. His heart skipped a beat. “Oh, my virtue’s long gone.”

“Neal …” Peter repeated in that same strange tone.

“Peter…” Neal mocked him. “I’ve been sending out signals for months, I was beginning to wonder if that night was all just the test that El set up. Because whenever I think about it, it seems like there was a lot more than that.”

Peter sighed, he looked like he was about to say something and then thought better of it. He smiled and whatever cloud that had been hanging over him disappeared. “No, it wasn’t just a test, and yes – you’re right.”

“Then why have you been playing coy?” Neal put the Champagne back in the ice bucket and went over to Peter. “We’re both adult, well past the age of consent. And you can’t tell me it’s because of the work.”

“No. Not hardly.” Peter shook his head. “Sometimes life hands you something. Something so good that it’s almost impossible to believe it’s real. Something you haven’t earned. Something you don’t have the right to take.”

“I bet that if you found a wallet full of cash on the street, you’d move heaven and earth to return it.”

“Exactly right. That’s who I am. It’s old fashioned, and maybe I’m an old fashioned kind of guy, but the work I do – whether it’s accounting, escorting, or whoring – equals a certain things in the real world. Beautiful men don’t fall out of the sky and land at my feet.”

“So, you don’t trust me?”

“No, Neal. I don’t trust myself. And that’s the sad truth of the matter.” 

“You’ve been hurt.” He wasn’t asking a question.

“I’ve learned my lesson.”

Neal was suddenly, blindingly angry. Who could break this wonderful man so badly that he couldn’t even trust his own heart? “I could have him killed, if you want. I’ve got friends.”

“Neal!” The way Peter said his name, that shocked laugh, told him volumes. He wasn’t completely ruined.

“I could…” He wanted to say so much more, he wanted to pour out his feelings, all the longing, but it was the wrong time for that. Soon, though. Very soon. Instead, he pulled Peter into his arms, close and tight. “The past is over, the future could be difficult, but the now … it’s perfect. Don’t look beyond that.”

 _“Carpe diem_ , Neal?”

“There’s nothing wrong with seizing the day. And here’s a perfect example of why.” He kissed Peter, all hunger and aggression. And Peter, true to his own nature, let Neal go so far and no further.

They waltzed back into the bedroom, clothes flying, shoes flying. Neal landed on his back, and looking up at Peter, he couldn’t help but think how much he looked like a lion about to pounce. Until Peter stopped, a look of panic on his face.

“What’s the matter?”

“Condoms – did you bring any?”

“You mean you brought me here really expecting to spend the weekend playing gin?”

“No – yes – fuck, I don’t know. I was out and meant to stop and get. I forgot.”

Neal rolled out from under Peter and pawed through his bag. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m such a boy scout.” He tossed a leather case on the bed. “A fresh box of Trojans, a fresh bottle of lube. I wasn’t planning on taking ‘no’ for an answer.”

He finished taking off his clothes and looked at Peter, stretched out on the bed like a pasha, wearing just his briefs, distorted by his erection and one black sock. This was perhaps the most erotic thing Neal had ever seen. That night at the Bryant Park Hotel, Neal hadn’t really had the chance to appreciate Peter’s body. He had loved the man’s heat and mass, the gentle way he used his strength. Peter was so perfectly dominant; he exercised control as naturally as breathing that Neal couldn’t image him as anything but that. 

But maybe tonight, Peter would let him take charge, work his own brand of magic. And Peter did, until he decided that he needed to create some magic of his own, in his own gentle, indomitable fashion.

For a brief time in his life, Neal considered the night he spent in a New York hotel room with an over-worked businessman named Peter Cullinan to be the pinnacle of his sexual experiences. That night paled in comparison to this. They were more than two bodies seeking surcease, they were men discovering the truth about themselves, even if they weren’t ready for it.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The late afternoon light gilded Neal’s hair, his brows, even his eyelashes. It kissed the arch of his nose and the curve of his jaw. Peter wondered if he should be jealous of the sun as it began to sink behind the mountains.

Neal looked up from his sketchpad, smiled at him and all thoughts of jealousy evaporated. There was wonder in that look; joy, too. Peter smiled back and the light in Neal’s eyes glowed brighter.

An odd feeling settled around his heart, something familiar but so long forgotten that he almost didn’t recognize it. 

Happiness.

Sitting by the fire and watching Neal work, Peter thought life couldn’t be more perfect. No cares, no worries, just him and his lover. 

A faint clatter interrupted his pleasant thoughts. Neal had tossed his pencil on the table. “Ah, I think I’m done. Losing the light.” 

“Can I see?”

“It’s just something preliminary, nothing important.” 

“I’d like to see – you’ve never shown me your work.”

Neal got a wary look on his face and licked his lips. “I’m not really accustomed to sharing at this stage.”

“Okay – I can understand.” Peter did and tried to hide his disappointment. 

But Neal must have seen something, because he abruptly thrust the sketchpad at him. “Like I said, it’s just a sketch.”

Peter looked at the drawing and was awed. The sketch of the view from the terrace was both simple and detailed; the ice building along the shoreline and fluid, the bare trees dipping into the dark waters of Lake George were mere suggestions of their summer greatness, except for a solitary leaf still clinging to a branch. He was abruptly reminded of something he read, [that drawing was the most honest and intimate of mediums.](http://www.nytimes.com/2013/04/19/arts/design/fine-lines-at-the-brooklyn-museum.html?smid=pl-share)

“Neal – this is incredible.” 

“You think so?” Neal sounded doubtful.

“Yeah – I absolutely think so. Would you – could I …” Now Peter was a little embarrassed. “I’d like to have this, have it framed.”

“Really? It’s just a drawing. I was going to do a watercolor study of the scene when I got back to my studio.” 

“You can, but I want this. Okay?”

Neal took the pad out of his hand, picked up his pencil and signed the drawing with a flourish. “It’s yours.” He leaned over, “And so is this.” Neal kissed him.

That kiss could have escalated into something more, but his stomach rumbled. “Sorry, other appetites are calling.”

Neal kissed him again and Peter could taste his smile. “Okay, but our reservations aren’t for another few hours.”

“What can I say, all the exercise today has made me hungry.”

“What exercise?” Neal actually smirked at him. The morning’s ride hadn’t gone quite as planned, mostly because Neal distracted him.

“How long has it been since you’ve been on horseback?” Neal had called out from the bedroom.

“A few months. I like to come up here in the late fall, after the tourists have gone.” 

Walking back into the suite’s main room, Neal stopped and stared at him. “That’s what you’re wearing?” He sounded disappointed.

Peter couldn’t understand Neal’s disappointment. He had on jeans, boot and a heavy sweater. “Why? What’s the matter?”

Neal licked his lips, just the tiniest peep of his tongue. “You said you did show jumping. I thought you’d be …”

“I’d be what, Neal?”

“Wearing boots.”

“I am.” Puzzled, Peter looked at his feet; the Timberlands he had on weren’t the best for riding, but was cold outside and there was snow on the trails. 

“Not those kind of boots.”

Peter met Neal’s gaze and to his amazement, his cheeks were bright red. _Oh._

“You like boots?” Peter never thought of himself as particularly kinky, but Neal was sparking all sorts of ideas.

“Boots, gloves, you in those really tight pants.” If anything, Neal turned even redder.

Peter took a deep breath. “A riding crop is part of the uniform, too.”

Neal moaned. “Don’t do this to me.”

They didn’t make it to the stables that morning.

His stomach rumbled again and Peter clapped a hand over his belly. “Sorry.”

Neal chuckled. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. We don’t have to stick to a schedule, you know. It’s not like …” He paused, about to say something, then seemed to catch himself. “Like elementary school. If you want to go to dinner early, that leaves more time for other things this evening.”

“Other things?”

“Gin rummy, chess. Sex.” Neal picked up the telephone and without further consultation, changed their dinner reservations from the very continental 8 PM seating to one more favored by the blue-haired set.

Peter wasn’t sure he was happy about the change in plans, having dinner at six meant the conversation he needed to have with Neal was going to happen two hours sooner. He tried to talk himself out of it, of letting sleeping dogs lie, but he couldn’t. Something bad happened on Friday.

They had finished dinner and the second cup of espresso was probably unnecessary, more of a delaying tactic than anything. Neal smiled at him from the short distance across the table and Peter debated, yet again, about letting things go. He stared into the dregs in his cup, hoping to find some answers.

“Peter, there’s something I need to tell you.”

He looked up, a bit startled. “Neal?”

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he repeated. “And I need you to listen to everything before you react.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

Neal grimaced and Peter couldn’t help but notice how the light had dimmed from his eyes. “The night we met –”

Once again, Peter wished he had pressed Elizabeth for more on Neal’s history. “Yeah?” He had no clue where this was going.

“Was the first-week anniversary of my release from prison.”

“Prison?” Peter repeated, feeling slow and stupid.

“Yes, prison. I had just gotten out of Sing-Sing.”

“That’s maximum security. That’s where they put murders,” Peter blurted out. Who the hell had he fallen for? “Does Elizabeth know?”

Neal nodded. “Yes, she does. And I’m not a murder. I really shouldn’t even have been sent there, but the US Attorney was able to convince the judge that I was a flight risk and the Federal Bureau of Prisons struck a deal with New York State. I did my four years there, instead of the minimum security facility at Otisville.”

“What did you do?”

“I was convicted on a charge of bond forgery.”

In the back of his head, behind the panicked clamoring, he realized that Neal hadn’t admitted to the crime. And who the hell forges bonds? 

“You have to know, I hate guns, I hate violence. I never took anything from anyone who couldn’t afford to lose it. And like I told Elizabeth, I won’t do anything that is going to send me back there.” His words were impassioned, but the look on Neal’s face spoke volumes more. He was terrified.

Peter chose his words carefully. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I don’t want to keep pretending my past never happened. Not with you, not when there’s an ‘us’.” Neal reached out, slowly, giving Peter every chance to move away. He didn’t. Neal’s hand on top of his wrist was hot, sweaty, shaking. “I never want you to have a reason to distrust me.”

The perverse part of him wanted to blurt out, _You’re a convicted felon, you stole from people. How could I ever trust you?_ But the man who woke up this morning with his face buried in Neal’s curls, his arms wrapped around him, realized that everyone deserved at least a second chance. “Okay.” He put a hand over Neal’s, stilling the tremors. “Okay.”

“Thank you.”

Peter didn’t know if he could ask Neal about what happened Friday night. Not now, not yet. Maybe never.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“So, things are with you are good?”

He had met Moz at the same coffee shop where he and Peter had their post-tryst rendezvous. Moz, in an odd fit of holiday spirit, was wearing a blue, white and silver wool hat with earflaps decorated with tiny menorahs.

Neal smiled. “Couldn’t be better.” It was a week since he and Peter had gotten back from Lake George, and the first time he’d seen Mozzie since October.

“I thought you’d be a natural. You’ve got the looks, the charm. Maybe if you’re lucky, some rich guy will fall head over heels and ask you to marry him.”

“Moz – that’s the plot from _Pretty Woman_.”

“Don’t be so gender-specific. No reason why it couldn’t work for you. You’re better looking than Julia Roberts, a little less horse-faced.”

Neal choked on his coffee. “I don’t need to have a client fall in love with me.”

“Hmmm, you’re happy just as you are?”

“Yeah.” Neal kept it simple. For some reason, he figured that Moz wouldn’t be too thrilled to learn that _he_ had fallen in love, just not with a sugar daddy. 

“Your living situation all sorted out?” Moz had left town on a “project” just as he had started working for Elizabeth. He was pretty clear that he expected Neal to be gone from Donnerstag (a safe house that used to be a cellar for a German beer hall) before he got back. Of course, he never told Neal that he wasn’t going to be back until Christmas.

“Yeah – I’m living with one of El’s other…” What should he call Peter?

“Studs?” 

Neal’s face grew hot. “Employees. He’d got a place up in Yorkville. A classic six.”

“Very nice. Escort work pays well, it seems.”

“It’s good enough. I’m clearing enough to rent some studio space in NoHo.”

“You’re serious about the art, really?”

“Yeah, I am. I have the time and the desire, especially since I don’t have to scrounge for a living.” _And I don’t have to impress Kate._

“Hmm, well – I guess I figured this day would come.” Moz gave him that look, the one that made Neal always think of a myopic turtle.

“What day?”

“That you’d find your wings and fly out of the nest.” 

“Yeah, I guess I did. But I couldn’t have done it without you. Hooking me up with Elizabeth solved a lot of my problems.”

Moz inclined his head regally. “I will accept all credit whenever and however it’s given.” He took a sip of his tea. “So, tell me about the guy who’s giving you house space on the Upper East Side.”

“Peter?” Neal really didn’t want to talk about him to Mozzie. It was all too new, too precious.

“Good name – solid.”

“That’s a nice way to describe him. Solid, grounded.”

“And yet he’s an escort.”

Neal shrugged. He wanted to say that Peter was so much more than that, but that would lead to other questions, ones Neal didn’t want to answer. 

Moz seemed to catch on, and let that subject drop. Only to find another sore one. “Tell me, have you run into any old friends?”

Neal swallowed. “Yeah. The worst one possible.”

“Don’t tell me, Adler?”

“Yeah, Adler.”

“Did he create a scene?”

“No – that’s not how Vincent works.”

“No, he’s more like a sapper, digging and digging until he’s compromised your very foundation.” Mozzie peered at him, owlishly. “So, what happened?”

Neal wasn’t sure he wanted to tell him, but his friend had a way of worming the details out of him. “He made it clear that he was interested in picking up where he had dropped things ten years ago.”

“In other words, he’d like to go back to crushing your spirit, grinding you into dust smaller than subatomic particles.”

Neal nodded. “He seemed rather eager to get started.”

“I hope you spat in his face.

Neal said nothing, finding the stained rim of his coffee cup fascinating.

“Neal – you let him?”

“Moz –”

“If you tell me I wouldn’t understand, I’m going to walk out.”

“You really wouldn’t understand. He’s magnetic, and it’s like I’m caught in his orbit.”

“You’re mixing up astronomy with physics, _mon frère_. Wait, make that physics with astronomy.”

“You know what I mean, Moz.”

“So stay out of his way.”

Neal knew that was easier said than done, unless he stopped working for Elizabeth. “I’ll do my best.” Desperate to change the subject, he asked, “How’s Sally?”

“She’s good. Sends her regards.” Moz check the time on his phone. “And speaking of Sally, I need to sally forth.” Moz chuckled at his own witticism. “Since you’re earning the big bucks now, you can pay for this.”

“Gee, thanks, Moz. You’re a prince.”

“I am, aren’t I?” Moz, as oblivious to Neal’s sarcasm as ever, shouldered his messenger bag and toddled off, leaving Neal with the check.

Neal held up his cup and the waitress came over with the pot to refill it. As much as he liked Moz, there were times when his company was a little too much. And yet, he could have used a friendly ear, someone who wasn’t invested, someone impartial. Well, that actually did rule Moz out. 

He looked out at the city street, festive in the usual pre-Christmas way and couldn’t keep his thoughts from going back to Peter and their weekend upstate. Despite his initial shock over Neal’s confession, he came to terms with it very quickly. He didn’t dance around the subject and he didn’t pry. But he did have questions, none of which were unexpected. 

Peter had asked, “What was the worst thing about prison?” 

He gave him the same answer he gave Elizabeth the first time they met, “The boredom.” Of course Peter, who masked a tender heart, wanted to know if Neal was okay, though he never outright asked him if he’d been raped. Neal had been candid and honest. 

“I was fine, took a bad beating the first week, but I had a solitary cell and I paid the guards well to watch my back after that.”

Peter nodded gravely and let it go. One thing did surprise him. Peter was curious about his criminal past, his alleged misdeeds. Neal had a hard time _not_ bragging, but telling him about his capers could come back to haunt him. So he kept quiet, playing down his years in Europe, although he did share one or two stories about Diana Berrigan, the FBI agent who dogged his trail for so many years.

That night, in bed, he told Peter about the first time he met the agent who finally caught him.

“I can’t believe you walked right up to her, the money from a forged bond in your hand, and gave her a lollipop.”

“A lime-green sucker.”

“You were insane.”

“No, I was young, foolish and stupidly proud that the FBI was on my tail.”

He also had to tell Peter about the time in Venice. “The Carabinari was on the left, Agent Berrigan was on the right. A pincer movement – she must have studied the classics.”

“I don’t think they teach Hannibal’s tactics at the FBI Academy.”

Neal had chuckled, of course Peter would know that he was thinking of the Battle of Cannae.

“So, how did you escape?”

“I jumped. The Rialto isn’t all that high and there was a very convenient vaporetto passing underneath. I didn’t even get wet. You should have seen her face, though.”

“You liked her.”

“Yeah. She was smart; she kept me on my toes. I was smarter, though.”

“And yet, she caught you.”

Neal had grimaced. This was heading into territory he didn’t want to share. “She did only because I made a mistake. It cost me.”

Peter kissed him. “Well, even criminal geniuses make mistakes.”

 _Mistakes._ Yeah, he’d made plenty of them. Kate wasn’t his biggest mistake. Nor was Matthew Keller. Both were rounding errors when compared to the mistake he made with Vincent Adler. Actually, the mistake wasn’t even _with_ Adler, it was coming into the man’s orbit.

Moz had thought they could take a bite out of the Adler pie; he had spotted a weakness in his financial system and wanted to use Neal as his front man. Neal worked his way into Adler’s organization, caught the man’s eye and within a week, was completely and utterly seduced.

It wasn’t sex, not at first. It was his personality. Neal had been too inexperienced to recognize just what Adler was, just what _he_ was. He flirted with Kate, he seduced her away from her boring fiancé, but at the same time, Vincent was seducing him, training him. Remaking him. 

At one point, Moz said he was becoming a mini-Adler and Neal hadn’t thought that was a bad thing. Of course, he hadn’t recognized the damage as it was happening. He hadn’t seen how he was losing himself. Even the first time Adler fucked him, when he crawled to the man like a slave, like a dog, it all seemed so natural, so perfectly in keeping with whom he was, who Vincent was. When Adler was done fucking him, he wasn’t so crude as to toss money at him – not like what happened at the gala – the payment for services was more subtle. A new title, a raise, a bonus on top of that, bespoke suits from his own personal tailor.

The transformation wasn’t quick, but it had been complete.

And now Peter seemed to be caught in Adler’s web. They had left Lake George on Monday morning, and Peter let him drive back, after extracting his promise to stay within the posted speed limit. They were just south of Albany when Peter’s cell rang; it was Elizabeth. The audible half of the conversation chilled him to the bone.

_“Elizabeth, you know my feelings about out of town assignments.”_

_“Tell him no.”_

_“I don’t care that he’s willing to pay double my rate, I’m not going to Grand Cayman with him for Christmas on his private jet. In fact, I’m not working that whole week.”_

Neal raised his eyebrows at that. Maybe Peter’s years with Elizabeth earned him the right to turn down assignments.

_“I am not interested. Full stop.”_

Neal sneaked a look at Peter; his tone of voice was becoming impatient, aggravated.

_“Yes, I know just who he is, and I don’t really care. None of that impresses me.”_

_“You can tell him that if he continues to push, I’m going to call it quits for everything.”_

Even over the roar of the Corvette’s engine, Neal could hear Elizabeth screech her dismay. 

_“Calm down, El. Just calm down. I’m not quitting you, I’m just be calling a halt to Wednesdays with Adler. Maybe it’s time. He’s getting too demanding.”_

It was a good thing that the New York State Thruway was empty this time of day, because Neal hit the brakes hard at Adler’s name and had to fight to keep control of the car. Peter ended the call and told him to pull over and change places. 

He tried not to brood about Peter and Adler for the rest of the trip home, but the problem was never far from his mind. He hadn’t forgotten that Peter had been Adler’s date at the Ballet Gala on Friday, but he’d been too consumed with his own encounter with that bastard to focus on it. Now, hearing that Peter had a regular appointment with Vincent, and Vincent was pressing him for more time made him ill.

He couldn’t talk to Mozzie about this. That meant telling him about his feelings for Peter, their too-new relationship. He certainly couldn’t talk to Elizabeth, who was clearly concerned with her revenue stream, although he now worried that Adler could bring all sorts of pressure to bear against her if she couldn’t convince Peter to comply.

“Another refill?” 

Neal looked up. The waitress was standing over him with a mostly empty pot and an annoyed expression on her face. He’d been sitting at the booth for over an hour with just the coffee; he didn’t blame her.

“No, thanks.” He gave the woman his brightest, most winning smile. It worked. Her lips twitched and she smiled back. He left her an outsized tip, paid for his coffee and Mozzie’s tea and headed home.

He still didn’t know what he was going to do about Peter. And Adler.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Yes, mom. Yes. Yes, mom. I’ll be there, I promise. No, no last minute emergencies. I’ve already left the office and I’m getting my hair done. Yes – a color and a cut. Something special? Like what? An updo? Mom…”

Diana listened to her mother go on and on, barely letting her get a word in. Her parents were in town this weekend, a combination holiday visit and (at least for her mother) a marathon shopping session. She’d been gently coerced into attending a Christmas party at the Danish Consulate. Her father had once been posted to Denmark and was good friends with the current ambassador.

That said ambassador’s daughter was a recently divorced lesbian had nothing to do with anything, her mother insisted. Diana hadn’t believed a word of that, but gave in anyway; figuring some emergency would come up and she’d be able to cancel at the last moment. Except that the emergency never materialized, and here she was, getting the full treatment – hair, nails, pedicure. It wasn’t like she didn’t take care of herself, but she had better things to do with her time.

There was an unsolved string of thefts from art galleries all over Manhattan – all slash and grabs like the one at the Lampson. Just last Sunday, after a Motherwell disappeared from the Colley Gallery, the Feds started fighting with the locals over jurisdiction, and it seemed that this case was going to land on her list, whether she wanted it or not. But right now, it still belonged to the NYPD. It was up to her bosses to sort it out.

And truthfully, she had other – more critical – cases on her sheet. The SEC was looking into Vincent Adler, _again_. Every few years they tried to dig up some dirt on him. Investigations were open, subpoenas filed, and the cases fell apart in short order. Agents were reassigned, furloughed, fired. Critical paperwork went missing and in one very spectacular instance, had disappeared between the judge’s chambers and the clerk’s office.

But someone was looking to make his bones in D.C. and Diana had been tapped as the sacrificial lamb. She just hoped her career would survive the fallout.

She sighed and picked up the copy of New York magazine her stylist had left on the chair next to her. She was surprised to see that it was last week’s edition. Usually, the periodicals at her salon were anywhere from six months to six years old. The copy of People magazine she read last time had avidly reported on Jennifer Aniston’s divorce from Brad Pitt.

Diana supposed that New York magazine was a step up from People, but she had to confess, she secretly enjoyed reading the celebrity gossip rags – at least when she was getting her hair done. A few hours escaping the daily grind of mortgage fraud, securities fraud, get-rich-quick schemes, and the dupes who fell for them.

She flipped through the glossy pages. It was the holiday edition, filled with pictures of beautiful people cavorting with other beautiful people, in clothing she could never afford. And if they weren’t beautiful, they were rich and powerful. And probably corrupt.

She stifled a snort of laughter at the thought, because one of the photo spreads featured at least two hedge fund traders currently under investigation. She turned the page, wondering who she’d recognize in the next set of photos.

Not a hedge fund trader, not a banker, or an embezzler, but goddamned Neal Caffrey. Even though he wasn’t posing for pictures on the red carpet, but standing in the background, with his face in profile, she’d recognize him anywhere. The caption said that the picture was taken at last Friday’s New York City Ballet fundraiser at the Palace Hotel. Luck was with her today, the photographer was credited – S. Ellis. 

Diana was tempted to go back to the office and start working the lead, but she had a head full of hair coloring and a potentially wrathful mother to deal with. She made sure no one was watching and tucked the magazine into her bag. Tomorrow was soon enough to go chasing after Neal Caffrey again.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“I have to say, Peter, I’m still extremely disappointed that you turned down my invitation to go away for Christmas. Grand Cayman in December is much nicer that New York.”

Peter had declined the opportunity when Elizabeth presented it, he turned it done again when Vincent offered again last Wednesday, the first time they’d seen each other since the Ballet Gala, since he fucked the man senseless. And when he requested Peter’s company for Christmas again tonight, he declined as politely as he could.

Peter contemplated his drink, wondering if he could just put it down and walk out. For a man who had professed to no attachments, Vincent Adler was becoming exceedingly clingy. Of course, in a very controlled, very patrician sort of way. 

“I don’t travel with clients.” He put the slightest emphasis on the last word.

Vincent finally got the message, and he wasn’t happy. He didn’t say anything, not right away, and nothing direct, but Peter could feel his disapproval through the evening. Of late, they weren’t going anywhere on Wednesday night. Adler had a gourmet meal prepared and they'd spend the evening talking.

Peter didn’t mind. Vincent wasn’t the most charming of men, but he didn’t need to be. He was highly intelligent, a good conversationalist on a wide range of topics, as interested in what Peter had to as he was in his own opinions. Which, oddly enough, reminded him of Neal.

Tonight, though, he wasn’t interested in talking and Peter was never inclined to fill the air with meaningless chatter. So they ate, the sounds of cutlery and glassware echoing in the room. The meal was lamb, a dish similar to the one he enjoyed with Neal on Saturday night. This version was, objectively speaking, better prepared, but Peter enjoyed the other one more. 

“Why do you do this?” Those where the first words Vincent said to him in the past hour.

“Do what?” 

Adler leaned back in his chair and tossed his napkin down, frustrated. “This. Work for an escort service. Whore yourself.”

Peter wiped his lips and took a sip of wine. “I do it because I like it. Because I was bored with my other life. It gives me a thrill.”

“That’s all I am to you, just a thrill?”

“You’re a client, Vincent.” Peter said with patience. “You’ve procured a service. Something you made very clear to me the first time we met.”

“Ah, yes. Well.” Adler sounded upset and disconcerted.

Peter softened his tone. “And you’re interesting, creative and in many ways, a challenge to me.” 

That seemed to smooth Vincent’s ruffled feathers. He smiled at Peter. “A challenge? Hmmm. I could say the same thing about you. You are definitely a challenge to me. I feel like I could be with you for a decade and still not know what makes you tick. You are the proverbial deep waters.”

Peter smiled and shook his head. “I told you, I’m an open book.”

The silence that followed was more comfortable. A server brought in dessert, one of the overly rich pastries that Adler preferred. 

“You know, Peter…” Vincent reached across the table and took his hand.

“Yes?” Alarm bells were sounding in his gut. Peter had a dreadful feeling where this conversation was heading.

“I may have been wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“When I said I wasn’t interested in forming a permanent attachment. Would you consider an exclusive arrangement? You’d come work for me at Adler Investments – I have an opening for the VP of Acquisitions. You’d have real work – challenging work – and we’d …” He actually squeezed Peter’s hand.

Peter blinked, appalled at the very idea. “Vincent -”

“Don’t say anything just yet – think about it. I don’t think you’d regret it.”

“I really don’t have to think about it.” Seeing the hope, the triumph, in Adler’s eyes, Peter realized there was no way to gently turn the offer down. “I like our arrangement as it stands. It suits me. I don’t want anything permanent.”

The earlier ugliness that had flashed across Vincent’s face when Peter had said that he was just a client returned and was magnified. “But I do.”

Peter sighed. “Then it seems we’re at an impasse.”

“Not an impasse. We’re done. You can leave. Now.”

That suited him even more. Peter stood up and gave Adler a slight bow. “I’ve enjoyed our time together, Vincent. I’ll tell Elizabeth that you’ll no longer be requiring my services on Wednesday nights.”

“Do that.”

Peter left the apartment, relieved that he was done with this particular client. Elizabeth had argued ferociously against him taking steps to sever the relationship and he agreed to hold off, at least until after the New Year. She couldn’t give him a hard time if Adler was the one to make the break.

Neal wasn’t working tonight; he had said something about getting together with an old friend, but that he’d be home before ten and to text him when he got done. They could meet for coffee at their usual spot. 

He checked the time, it was nine-thirty and maybe Neal was available. He sent him a text.

_I’m free now, meet me at The Lantern?_

Neal replied quickly.

_I’m in that neighborhood, be there in ten. C U Soon._

The thought of seeing Neal, hours before he expected to, made him happy – happier than he should have been by such a trivial thing, but he didn’t care. He wondered if he should call Elizabeth now or wait until the morning. Might as well wait, no one liked to get bad news at the end of the day.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Diana’s probie knocked on her door. “The photographer’s here, boss. I’ve got her set up in the conference room. Seems a bit prickly, not happy to be here.”

“I’m not surprised. No one likes being asked to come down to an FBI office, especially a few days before Christmas.” It had taken some effort to track down the photographer who took the pictures that Diana had found. The magazine was reluctant to share the information without a warrant, and she ended up getting the name via Google. S. Ellis was Sara Ellis, freelance photographer and occasional photojournalist.

“Get her some coffee; let her know we appreciate her cooperation. I’ll be there in two minutes.” Diana gathered her notes, the purloined copy of the magazine and her thoughts. She had no warrant, no way to compel Ms. Ellis’ assistance. Now was the time to pour on the charm.

Sara Ellis was a tall redhead with excellent posture. She also looked too slight to be carrying around heavy camera gear and throwing herself in front of celebrities and into war zones. She was staring out the window but turned around when Diana entered the room.

“I am a member of the fourth estate and I don’t appreciate being dragged in here like a suspect or a criminal.”

“Ms. Ellis, no one dragged you down here. You were asked and you came of your own free will. This is not an interrogation.” Charm wasn’t going to work with this woman.

She turned back to the window, staring out at the winter skyline. “Whatever.”

“The Bureau does appreciate your cooperation.”

“Your assistant already said that. And for the record, I don’t have to reveal my sources. If you want to find out about election fraud in Albany, do your own legwork.”

Diana took a deep breath. “We didn’t ask you to come down her about your last exposé.”

“Then why am I here?”

“These pictures.” Diana slid the magazine down the table. “You were identified as the photographer.”

“Yeah, so? Is taking pictures of rich people a crime? I have to pay my bills somehow.”

“No, not as far as I know.”

“And again, why am I here?”

Losing patience, Diana cut to the chase. “Who is this guy?” She pointed to the picture with Caffrey in it.

“How the hell would I know? He’s background.”

“Is he in any other pictures you might have taken that night?”

“Why? Is he a criminal? Because I have to tell you, I think that all these guys are criminals.” 

“Let’s just say, he’s a person of interest.”

Ellis seemed to appreciate that. “Good thing I like technology.” She pulled an iPad out of her purse and started tapping away. “Ah – here we go. Here’s the album from that event.”

She handed the tablet to Diana and she flicked through the images. There were some tantalizing shots where she was positive Caffrey was in the background, but none of his face. It was as if he was hiding from the camera lens. That didn’t surprise Diana at all. There were several hundred pictures and Diana was ready to give up when she came to a set of table shots. Could she really be that lucky?

She was. There was a picture of Neal Caffrey, again with this face casually turned away from the lens, but sitting next to a man who was smiling like he won the lotto. They guy also had his hand on Neal’s in a very possessive manner.

“You know this guy?” She handed the tablet back to Sara.

“Yeah.” She grimaced. “That’s Daniel Picah. He shows up for all these things. And come to think of it, I’ve seen him with this man a couple of times over the last few months. Sharp dresser, hates the camera.”

“But you don’t know his name?”

“I get the feeling he’s not really part of the charitable set, if you know what I mean.”

“A hanger-on?”

“Maybe. Could be a pro.”

“Pro?” Diana was confused now.

“Professional escort, a walker. Trust me, Daniel Picah isn’t the type to attract someone as slick and good looking as this guy.”

“What do you know about this Picah guy?”

“He’s got money, likes to spend it. Buys a lot of art, drops a lot of cash for good causes. Has the personality of a squirrel in heat. Loves to talk and can’t get him to shut up.”

That set off a lot of warning bells. Neal Caffrey hooking up with a wealthy art collector, could be nothing, could be trouble. Definitely worth looking into. “Can I get a copy of this?”

Sara tapped and flicked and asked for her email address. “Damn – sent you ten other photos with it. Sorry.”

“It’s not a problem. I appreciate you taking the time to come down here. If you think of anything, give me a call.” She handed her a card.

Sara Ellis took the card and took off. Diana went back to her office, plugged in the name “Daniel Pika” and got no responses. She kicked herself for not getting better information from the damn photographer and ran through several spelling variants, finally getting a hit on “Daniel Picah.” She opened the email with the photos, clicked on the thumbnail image of the one with Caffrey and opened it, comparing it to the DMV file photo. Bingo – same guy. “Just what are you doing, Neal Caffrey. What’s your game this time?”

A knock on her door interrupted her train of thought. It was Clinton. As usual, he didn’t wait for permission to enter, flopping down in one of the guest chairs.

“What’s going on?”

“Merry Christmas. The warrants for Adler’s phone records were denied.”

“Ah, damn.” She had roped Clinton into the case; his prior experience with the SEC was going to be invaluable.

“Well, you knew it was a long shot.”

“And sometimes long shots deliver.”

“True.”

“Have mixed feeling about this one. We all know Adler’s dirty, but every agent that’s gone up against him has failed.”

“And lost their jobs. The guy’s got some kind of juice – in the FBI, in the Justice Department, in the courts.” Clinton shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it. How do you get a guy who’s that protected?”

Clinton wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t know. “The trick is to find a way at him that he’ll never suspect. It’s a pity his organization’s so tight, can’t even sneak a mole in there. He’s got fifteen people working for him at all times, that’s it.”

“Add to that, Adler has no personal weaknesses. Not married, came out about a decade ago, but doesn’t date anyone seriously.”

“Yeah.” 

“At least I’m not the one that’s got to tell the brass that the investigation’s stalled.”

“Thanks, you’re some friend.”

Clinton made no move to leave. “So, who was the redhead?”

“Huh?”

“The tall, skinny redhead oozing attitude that just slinked out of here. You were talking with her in the conference room. Doesn’t seem your type.”

That last comment annoyed her. “Agent Clinton Jones – why is it that you have to pair me up with every woman I talk with?”

To her surprise, he flushed. “Just, well, you’ve been alone since Christie left. I worry about you.”

“Thanks. But I’m happy and you don’t need to worry.”

She wasn’t sure he believed her. “So, what was she here for?”

“A welcome change of subject – I’ve got a lead on Neal Caffrey.”

“Caffrey, why?”

“Remember that slash-and-grab from October?”

“Yeah. I seem to recall that you didn’t think it was his M.O.”

“I still don’t, but there’s been a string of similar thefts and it seems to me that even if Caffrey’s not involved, he might know the players.”

“Looking to make him a CI?”

“It’s a thought. Anyway…” She told him how she happened on his picture and showed him the one that Sara Ellis just sent her.

Clinton was amused. “So he’s dating some wealthy art collector now? How very Neal Caffrey.”

“Feel like getting out of the office for a bit? We can go sweat this Daniel Picah. See just what Caffrey’s up to.”

“Why not, could use a little fresh air.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Do you know what you’ve done?” Elizabeth was more than pissed. “Do you know just how much you’ve cost me?” She asked – no, demanded – that Peter meet with her at her office in lower Manhattan.

“He’s not your only client, El.” Peter was a little too nonchalant for her mood.

“You don’t get it, do you? Vincent Adler has more influence in his little finger than most politicians do in their entire body. “He decides to say something, I’m dead. My business is dead. Why the hell couldn’t you go to the Islands with him – a few days of fun and sun – that’s it. Not really a hardship, Peter.”

“I don’t travel with clients, you know that.”

She did. Peter had made that clear from the beginning. He wasn’t interested in a permanent relationship; he wasn’t interested in being “kept.” He had no “Pretty Woman” dreams, unlike many others in her employ. She just wished he’d realize how much damage a pissed-off Adler could do to her.

“I’m sorry, El. You’ll let me know if he makes trouble for you.”

“And what would you do? You’re not in his league, Peter.”

“That may be, but I’m not without some influence over him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I could probably get him to back off.”

“How?” 

“He wanted to make things exclusive.”

All thoughts of Peter’s supposed leverage against Adler left her mind. She screeched, “What?” 

Peter winced. “Yeah – he offered me a ‘position’ in his company.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“Not in the least. I turned him down and that’s why he ended things. It wasn’t because I wouldn’t go to the Caribbean with him.”

That put a different spin on things. “Okay, okay.”

“Look, if he calls and wants to do Wednesdays again, I’m open to that. Or even an occasional job on the weekends, but nothing exclusive, nothing out of town.”

“Hmmm, all right.” El flipped through the list of requests for the coming week. “You’re free this Friday, Garrett Fowler’s back in town and he’s got tickets to the Ranger’s game. He asked for you.”

“That’s fine, you can book me. Tell him I’ll meet him at Brother Jimmy’s as usual. Wouldn’t mind some barbeque.”

“Good. And what about next week? If you’re not going to be with Adler, you’re not going to be working. I’ve got nothing for you until New Year’s Eve.”

“That’s not a problem. I’m looking forward to a little down time.”

Elizabeth was resigned to losing Adler as a client; in truth it was better than the alternative. Had Peter taken that offer, he would have been off her books. While she charged Adler a fortune for Peter’s time, she charged other men a lot of money for Peter’s time, too. And with Neal Caffrey in the mix, her business was doing better than ever. 

Which reminded her, “Peter – how’s Neal working out?”

“Neal’s doing fine. You talk to him; you know how much he’s in demand.”

El chuckled. “Yeah, I do. I’d book him seven nights a week if he’d let me. But seriously, how’s it working out?” 

“Good, he’s quiet, neat. Housebroken.”

“He’s not a puppy, Peter.”

“No, he’s better than a puppy. He doesn’t make messes on the carpet.”

“I should hope not. But you like him?”

“Yes, El. I do.” There was something in Peter’s answer that sent off alarm bells. Something in his eyes, the sudden stiffness of his posture. 

She pressed him. “You’re telling me the truth – you’re not getting ready to kick him out? I don’t want to have to find him another place.” _Or convince Mozzie to let him stay in one of the safe houses indefinitely._

“Since when did you become such a mother hen?”

“You didn’t answer my question. He makes a lot of money for me and I like him – he’s got that bad boy appeal. “

“Thought you liked bad girls.”

“I do, and you’re dodging me.”

Peter held up a hand, giving into her pressure. “Yes, Elizabeth. I like Neal very much. I’ve got no plans on kicking him out. He enjoys the work and even though he’s _a convicted felon_ , he’s remarkably trustworthy.”

“Ah, so he told you.”

“He did.”

“You never asked me about his background.”

“I trusted – I trust – you not to hire an axe murder or a sociopath.”

“And I figured he’d tell you sooner or later.”

“We done here?” Peter finished his coffee and stood up, all long legs and exasperation.

“Yeah, we are. I’ll be in touch, and if Adler calls…”

“Wednesdays only, for now. Keep it low key, keep it light.”

“You got it, sweetie. And don’t forget about Fowler on Friday.”

Peter gave her a look of minor annoyance before leaving.

El knew that the Adler problem wasn’t going to go away. If he called, there was a chance he’d want someone else. But who? Times like this, she felt a little like Jim Phelps from the old Mission: Impossible series, flipping through an album of available players for her own little undercover operation, except that the album was an iPad and hopefully she wouldn’t have to disavow any knowledge of her guy’s actions.

Avery Phillips? Nah, too much of a psychopath. She flicked to the next image.

Ryan Wilkes? Too intense, too inclined to want more than the client was willing to give.

Edward Reilly? Nope, a bit too rough around the edges to appeal to Vincent Adler.

Edward Walker? That was an interesting possibility. He was older, like Peter. Had a way about him. It could be a good match. She hoped she’d get the chance to pair them up.

The last photo in the digital album was Neal Caffrey. She discarded the possibility almost as soon as the idea came to her, but then reconsidered. Adler was a connoisseur and Neal was an artist with very refined tastes. It could be a match. If Vincent did call, she’d ask him if he was interested in someone younger – if just for a change of pace.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Your meeting with Elizabeth go okay?”

“Well, she was pissed.” 

“About what? The thing with that client? The one you don’t want to see anymore?”

Peter gave him a look. They weren’t supposed to talk about business.

“What? You were talking right in front of me, I have ears. And what happens to you matter to me, you know.” Neal was so damn torn, wanting to tell him about Adler, not wanting to bring even the slightest hint of darkness into their relationship. 

“Well, the issue’s moot. I told El that the guy was done with me.”

The sense of relief was indescribable. And fleeting.

“But if he changes his mind, I’m okay with it too.”

 _Shit_ “Why would you see him again if he dumped you?”

“Because it’s just a job.”

Neal had an unnerving thought. “Do you like the man?”

“Like I just said, it’s a job, Neal. I don’t get emotionally invested with my clients.”

“That’s not an answer, Peter. You can still form an opinion; you can still like or not like someone without being emotionally invested.”

“All right, yeah – he’s okay. A little intense, but I liked him well enough.”

 _Intense_. That was one way to describe Vincent Adler. “He didn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to?”

“What is this, Neal? Why all these questions?”

“I’ve always wondered what would happen if I had problems with a client. Problems with part where _I_ get paid.” 

Neal’s answer must have been plausible enough, because Peter answered without giving him the side-eye. “You tell Elizabeth, and if there’s still a problem, you tell me. You never, ever, have to put yourself in jeopardy. Got it?” Peter rested to heavy hands on his shoulders and made sure they were eye to eye.

Neal smiled and kissed Peter. He liked kissing Peter, almost more than anything. Getting kissed by Peter was a close second, but if he thought about it, maybe he liked being kissed by Peter more than he liked kissing Peter. It was all so pleasurably confusing.

“Mmmm, nice.” Peter bit his lower lip. Not too hard, just enough to give him a jolt. Neal slid his hand under Peter’s shirt and relished the smooth skin over hot muscles, loving the heat. Peter took over; his kisses demanding everything that Neal wanted to give him. 

He mewled and rocked against Peter, his cock hard and hurting from the almost instant arousal. 

“Shh, shh, I’ve got you.” Peter waltzed him back towards the bedroom they’d been sharing for past week, since they got home from Lake George.

And the doorbell rang.

“Shit.” Peter kissed him again and let go.

“Ignore it.” Neal made a grab for him.

“Can’t.”

“Who could it be? The doorman’s not supposed to let anyone up without calling. It’s probably just the old guy from down the hall who thinks his cat’s gotten out, what’s his name? Regis?”

“No, but close. He’s Mr. Philbin.”

“We haven’t seen his cat.”

The bell rang again. “Sorry, Neal – have to answer it. You can stay here, though. Get yourself presentable.”

“What about you.” Neal cast a pointed look at Peter’s bulging fly.

Peter pulled down his sweater. “There.”

“That really doesn’t disguise anything.” Nor did it stop Peter from answering the door.

Neal went into the bathroom, splashed some cold water on his face, and the thought of rheumy Mr. Philbin and his equally rheumy house cat was enough to deflate things. Not that walking out there with a boner would have mattered; the old man was as blind as a bat in sunlight.

He heard a female voice. So it wasn’t their elderly neighbor. It didn’t sound like Elizabeth, either. Not that Elizabeth would ever pay a social call. The voice was vaguely familiar, the stern tone sending alarms ringing.

 _Shit._ Neal knew exactly who it was. He went to join Peter in the foyer. “Well, well, if it isn’t the She-Eagle herself.” At Peter’s puzzle expression, he made the introductions. “Peter, this is Diana Berrigan, the FBI agent who caught me. The one I told you about.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Ah, right. Do I need to call a lawyer for you?”

“Why don’t we see what Agent Berrigan wants, other than a cup of espresso. You still like Italian Roast?”

Diana smirked at him. “Yeah, Neal. I do, but this isn’t a social call.”

“I didn’t think it was. How did you find me?”

“You need to do a better job of keeping your picture out of the glossies. Found you in last week’s New York magazine.” She pulled out a copy and showed it to him. “Traced you to your _friend_ , Daniel Picah.” She gave Peter a pointed look. “He tells me that you’ve been dating. And he hopes you feel better”

Diana was trying to stir up some trouble and that pissed Neal off. “Dating, yeah. We’ve gone out a few times.”

“I find it really interesting that you’re out of Sing-Sing for a little more than two months and you’re shacking up in a classic six in Yorkville and dating a well-known art collector and philanthropist.”

Peter actually growled and Neal held up a hand. “Don’t worry about it. She’s just trying to wind me up. Agent Berrigan and I go back a long time.”

Peter gave the agent what Neal privately called the stare of doom and went into the kitchen. The sound of drawers slamming and the espresso machine was an interesting counterpoint to their conversation.

“So, other than stirring the shit, what brings you here?”

“The week you got out prison, Lewis Thayer’s Untitled Number Two went missing from the Lampson Gallery. A slash-and-grab.”

Neal didn’t know whether to be pleased or dismayed. “And you think I did it?”

Diana just grinned and rocked back on her heels. “That occurred to me, and a few other agents from the old gang.”

“You know I dislike violence, especially when it comes to art.”

“I also know that there’s been a string of these thefts throughout New York City. A Motherwell went missing the weekend before last and suddenly I see you in the society pages, wearing a custom-fitted tuxedo, swanning around with the beautiful set, living in an apartment whose monthly maintenance is probably more than my take home pay, so I’ve got to wonder just what Neal Caffrey’s up to.”

“Well, just keep wondering. I didn’t take the Thayer, or the Motherwell.”

“Do you have an alibi?”

Neal couldn’t believe this was happening. “For when?”

“Let’s start with October 18th, that’s when the Thayer was taken.”

“What time?”

“A little before midnight, can you tell me where you were?” She sounded so damn smug. But Special Agent Diana Berrigan was heading for a fall. October 18th wasn’t a date he was going to forget.

“As a matter of fact, I do.” He turned and called into the kitchen. “Peter? What’s the name of that bar, the one by the Bryant Park Hotel? You remember, the one where ...”

Peter called back. “The Court and Thistle.”

He turned back to the agent. “I was at the Court and Thistle from just before ten PM until closing time, around two. After that, I was at the Bryant Park Hotel. With Peter.”

“Really?”

“Really. Was there until just before five. I’m sure they can verify that from the security tapes.”

Peter came back with a ridiculously tiny cup of espresso and a thunder cloud expression on his face. He handed it to Neal, who offered it to Diana. She didn’t take it so he took a sip and put the cup on the foyer table. 

“What’s going on?” Peter’s overt display of protectiveness was startling, but Neal relished it. It had been a long time since someone looked out for him like this. Mozzie’s concern was always diluted by his paranoia and his deeply nurtured self-interest.

“Agent Berrigan wants to know my whereabouts for October 18th.”

“The night we met?”

“Yeah. That night.” He gave Peter a smile, lost in the memory for a moment.

But Peter didn’t get nostalgic, he got aggravated. “I don’t like this, Neal. Please, let me get my lawyer on the phone.”

“Peter, it’s okay.” He looked at Diana, one eyebrow arched. “Anything further, Agent Berrigan?”

“No, not at the moment. But I hope you have alibis for the dates of the other thefts.”

“I’m sure I do.” Not that he wanted to give out any information. “You said the Motherwell was stolen last weekend?”

“Actually, a week ago Sunday.”

Peter answered for him. “That weekend, Neal and I were out of town from Saturday afternoon to midday Monday. Any more questions?”

Diana wasn’t letting them go so easily. “Where?”

“Lake George, we drove up early Saturday.”

Neal didn’t like how Diana had fixed her gaze on Peter. “Who are you?”

“You don’t have to answer that.” It was Neal’s turn to get protective.

Diana turned back to Neal. “I already know his name is Peter Burke, and he’s the owner of this apartment.”

“Then that’s all you need to know.” Neal marched to the front door, opened it and gestured for her to leave.

She didn’t. “Okay – we’re getting off on the wrong foot here. I really didn’t think you took the paintings.” The agent’s tone was conciliatory.

“Then why are you harassing me?”

“I was hoping you might know who did. There’s a reward out for them.”

Neal was appalled. “You want me to turn Fed?”

“There are worse things that being a CI. Like going back to prison.”

Neal’s anger flared, so much for any attempt at conciliation. “I served my time, Agent Berrigan. I did the full four years of my sentence, kept my nose clean. I have done nothing to warrant your threats. So, you can leave my home –”

“Your home?” She gave Peter a pointed look.

Peter stepped in front of him. “This _is_ Neal’s home. And you need to leave. Now.”

Diana gave Neal her card, or tried to. She put it on the table by the door. “If you hear anything, I would appreciate a call.”

“Don’t hold your breath.” Neal retorted.

Peter shut the door, barely waiting for the woman to step into the hallway. Neal’s heart sank. Peter was angry, he could see it in the way he turned the locks with deliberate care, the tension in his back, the tightness in his shoulders.

“I’m sorry.” He swallowed, but it was hard against the lump in his throat. “Do you want me to leave?” 

Peter turned back to him. “Leave? Why?”

“Because I brought this on. I brought the FBI to your home. Because they’ll never leave me alone.” Neal felt his own anger rise. “Because every time a gallery is broken into, or a museum is robbed, or someone’s private collection is stolen, they are going to come looking for me.”

Peter blinked. “Why? I thought you were convicted of bond forgery.”

He shook his head, his rage getting better of his discretion. “And I was the principal suspect for a half-dozen high profile art crimes, okay? Berrigan’s going to keep hounding me and no matter how clean I keep my nose, I’m always going to be under suspicion.” The anger left him in a rush, replaced by a soul-crushing sadness. “I probably should go, take off, get out of the Fed’s jurisdiction. Having me here is going to complicate your life in ways you never wanted.”

Peter did the unexpected and wrapped his arms around him, holding him tight. “No. You’re not going anywhere, not without me.” He pressed a kiss against his forehead. “You complicate my life just by breathing. But you make it better, brighter. I’d been alone for so long I forgot how good it is to share my life.”

“Peter?” There were words there, words that Neal himself had been afraid to speak. 

But Peter didn’t speak them either, he just held him and ran a steady, comforting hand through his curls. “Next time the FBI comes calling; you’ll say nothing and let me call my lawyer. There’s such a thing as harassment, you know.”

Neal smiled. Peter had no idea, but now wasn’t the time to educate him.

Peter kissed him again, on the lips this time. “Mmm, I think I want to have my coffee from your lips from now on.” He deepened the kiss, his mouth hot and urgent.

Neal speared his fingers through Peter’s hair, enjoying the rough silk against his palms. They hadn’t spoken the words yet, but _I love you_ was an echo sounding in every heartbeat.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Christmas was just a day away. Peter, never one to celebrate the holidays, had suddenly found himself window shopping, wondering whether Neal would like something. He had realized from the first time they’d met that Neal was someone who loved and appreciated the finer things in life, but kept himself on a very tight rein. Peter appreciated that level of discipline and dedication, and one evening, after watching Neal indulge in a tiny portion of an incredibly rich dessert, he had commented, “Keeping an eye on that girlish physique?”

Neal gave a snort of laughter. “It’s habit. There was a time …”

“Way back when you were being chased by the FBI for crimes you didn’t comment?” Peter’s tone was wry. 

“Yeah, that’s one way to put it. Back then, I needed to be in top shape.”

“Scaling rooftops requires an Olympian’s body?”

“Actually, one scales walls and climbs across rooftops, but yeah. Pretty much. You never know when you’ve got to crawl through ductwork or squeeze between stone walls.” At Peter’s lifted brow, he added, “All for the sake of an evening’s entertainment.”

“I see.”

“It became habit – eat well, but keep it to the barest minimum.”

“And in prison?” It became a point of pride with Peter not to shy away from the truth of Neal’s past.

“Have you ever tried prison food? Empty calories, too many carbs and it tasted terrible. I wasn’t interested in bulking up and getting fat wasn’t really on the agenda.”

Neal was a little less abstemious with wine. He enjoyed what he drank and didn’t stint in the pour, but he didn’t over-indulge and he didn’t seem to need to drink. He just enjoyed it.

Which was why Peter was in the Sherry-Lehmann store on Park, looking at bottles of vintage booze.

“Can I help?” An older gentleman, with an upper-class British accent – one who probably had his palate insured by Lloyds of London for a million dollars – asked with a supercilious air.

“Yes, I would like to give my friend a good bottle for Christmas. What would you suggest?”

“Well, it all depends on your friend’s tastes and your price range.” Peter could tell that the man was sneering at his shabby coat. It was raining, a typically filthy December day and he was Peter Burke, not Peter Lassen or Peter Cullinan or any of the high-maintenance men who would normally frequent this temple of the vine.

“My friend prefers French vintages over Italian, red of course. I was thinking about an ‘82 Bordeaux.”

“That will run you a minimum of eight hundred a bottle.” The man said it like he didn’t think Peter could afford an eight dollar box of Franzia.

“That won’t be a problem.”

The man harrumphed, albeit in a very polite way. “We have several in stock from that year, the Pomérol Pétrus for eleven grand, a Decru-Beaucaillou, at $875, and a Haut-Brion, for $1350.”

Peter thought for a moment. “I'll pass on the Pétrus. Between the other two, which would you prefer to drink?”

The salesman seemed a little taken about by his question, as if no one had ever thought to ask him that before. “I’d select the Haut-Brion, and not because it’s more expensive.” He went into some elaborate description of the wine, “There are extravagantly expressive aromas of hot stones, tobacco, minerals and marzipan, of smoked meat, leather, truffle and burnished oak, it’s intensely flavored and penetrating, with strong acids giving the flavors terrific cut and grip and a dense, silky palate impression.” It was as pretentious as the man himself. But he seemed sincere in his appreciation.

Peter interrupted him. “I’ll take it.” 

The salesman gave another polite and distinctly annoyed harrumph, but opened a locked cabinet and retrieved the requested bottle. He was ringing up the purchase when Peter remembered that New Year’s was something to celebrate, too.

“While you’re at it, I’ll have a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal ‘05, if you have any.” Peter picked the most expensive champagne he could think of, just to twit this supercilious jerk. 

His holiday shopping wasn’t yet done. From Park, he walked down 59th Street, to Fifth. The street was jammed with last minute shoppers caught in the heart of New York City’s luxury shopping district. He passed Tiffany’s, more because it would be impossible to get any help there – the store was packed with tourists and shoppers. He was not particularly fond of Tiffany’s anyway. Too commercial, nothing special except the name and the little blue boxes. Cartier, on the other hand, might just have what he needed.

And while he shopped, Peter tried not to think of the dozens of reasons why showering Neal with expensive gifts was a bad idea. He kept telling himself that Neal was as different from David Lawrence, his first and only partner, as the sun was from the moon. Neal wasn’t going to tell all his friends about the sugar daddy he snagged, and what a sweet deal he had, even if it meant getting fucked by some boring accountant once or twice a week. Neal wasn’t like that.

Neal might have been a criminal, he might have done things that Peter would never dream of doing, he might have spent four years in a maximum security prison, but he wasn’t a liar and a cheat.

 _Neal loved him_. 

No – no – no. That’s not what was happening here. Better to think that Neal liked and respected and admired him, he cared about him. Whether Neal was thinking about a long future, or just getting by day-by-day, he’d always treat him right.

The salesman, less obnoxious that the one at the wine store, smiled and handed him a leather folio with his receipt. Peter scrawled his signature and exchanged it for a small box wrapped in the company’s signature red and gold paper. He tucked it into his jacket pocket and headed home, thoughts still disturbed.

Neal’s face on Christmas morning made the hassle of shopping worth every torturous moment. “You shouldn’t have,” was the oft-repeated statement. 

“Okay – I know I went a little overboard, but I haven’t really ever given anyone a Christmas present before.”

Neal looked at him, with something like sadness in his eyes, but all he said was “ _A_ Christmas present? Peter – if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were Jewish and doing the eight nights of Chanukah thing, all at once. You’re spoiling me.”

He shrugged. “Somehow, I don’t think anyone’s ever spoiled you.” Neal didn’t reply. He never talked about his past and Peter didn’t push him.

Neal had given him a few presents, some made him laugh, some made him blush and one made him as hard as a rock underneath his robe. Neal had given him a hand-made English riding crop. 

“I am hoping that you aren’t planning to give me a horse to go with this?” 

Neal gave him a filthy look from under his lashes. “Well, not the kind of horse that you’d need to stable.”

He would have pounced, but Neal held him off. “I’ve got a few more presents for you.” He held out a large, flat box. 

Peter gave it an experimental shake. “Too heavy for clothes, I think.”

Neal blushed and told him to open it. 

It was the sketch he’d done when they were in Lake George two weeks ago.

“You still want this?”

“It’s beautiful.” It was, even more than he remembered. “Thank you.” 

The simple words seemed to please Neal, and he kissed him, his lips soft, smiling. This time, though, it was Peter’s turn to hold off. There was one last present. He took a small, wrapped box out of his pocket.

“Peter?” There was a touch of panic in Neal’s voice.

“Just open, don’t assume.”

The box contained a pair of cufflinks, the gold was a soft pink color not common these days. “They are vintage. I thought you’d appreciate them.”

Neal closed the box and seemed to weigh his thoughts. “I do, but Peter, these are too much. The wine, the sketchbook, everything – you don’t need …”

“Giving presents shouldn’t be about needing. I want to – I want to give you something you’d enjoy. And every time I see you wearing them, I’ll think of this day – our first Christmas together.” He swallowed, suddenly choked up.

Neal crawled into his arms, resting his head against his shoulder. “Then I’ll wear them with great joy.”

The day passed in quiet happiness. And so did the next and the ones after that. True to expectations, neither man worked until New Year’s Eve.

Neal was back in his tuxedo, but wearing a new shirt and his new cufflinks. Peter couldn’t help but wonder what happened to the old one. That evening seemed like a lifetime ago.

“You’re out with Mr. Wonderful tonight?”

“Yeah.” To Peter’s surprise, Neal didn’t make a face.

“You _want_ to see him?”

“He’s not that bad. And I thought we didn’t talk about clients?”

_Right._

“You?”

“El’s set me up with a new client for the Midnight Gala at the Met.”

“Nice…”

Peter spoke without thinking. “Truthfully, I’d rather be home and celebrating with you.” The words shocked him. He’d never even consciously thought about changing his life because of Neal, leaving the job – the escorting, the outcall – behind.

Neal, though, didn’t seem to realize how earthshaking that was. He brushed his lips against Peter’s and whispered, “I would, too.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Daniel Picah was no different tonight than he was any of the other dozen nights that Neal had gone out with him, but he found a well of patience for the man’s endless chatter, even some interest in what he had to say.

They were having a private dinner before heading to one of several parties that Dan had purchased invitations for. Neal wasn’t thrilled about making the rounds, but Dan wasn’t really a bad guy. He was just lonely and a bit weird. Okay, more than a bit weird and obsessed with collecting the latest and greatest.

The topic tonight was his acquisition of an eleventh century suit of Japanese Samurai armor. 

Neal managed to get in a few words. “It will go with your _Go Yoshihiro_. You’re going to focus on Japanese armaments now?”

“Oh, oh – I can’t believe I didn’t tell you.” The man was as excited as a kid on Christmas Eve. 

“What?”

“I met with Vincent Adler last week!”

Neal went cold at the mention of that man’s name.

“Adler?”

“You remember him, from the Ballet Gala? Or had you gotten sick before we were introduced? Anyway, Adler’s got this foundation that repatriates stolen and lost artwork. He’s certain that my _Go Yoshihiro_ is the missing National Treasure and Vincent – he’s letting me use his first name – has arranged for its return. There’s going to be a private ceremony with the Ambassador and a letter of acknowledgement from the Emperor himself.”

“That’s … wonderful.” Neal hoped like hell Daniel wasn’t going to want him to be there. 

“Yeah, I know.” Dan looked away, a little flustered. “Um, Nick?”

“Yes?” _Here it comes..._

Dan licked his lips. “Um, I – um…”

Neal wondered what the hell was going on.

“I need to ask you about something. It’s a little embarrassing.”

That wasn’t what he was expecting. “Ask away.”

“Why is the FBI looking for you? Some agents came to my home last week; they showed me a picture of the two of us at the Ballet Gala. This woman agent, she wanted to know how I knew you.”

Neal hoped his expression didn’t mirror the anger he felt. Of course the She-Eagle had said she tracked him from a stray photo of him and Daniel. He kept his response simple. “It’s nothing terrible. They needed my help with something.”

Dan’s expression brightened. “Oh, oh. That’s okay then. The other agent seemed to imply something like that, but he really was anxious to know if anything had gone missing from my collection, or if you had seemed keen on something in particular. Like you were going to steal it.”

“No, no – not at all. It’s nothing like that.” Neal had to dance fast. “I have some expertise in some areas that the FBI finds useful. They wanted to get in touch with me.”

“But didn’t they have your address or a cell phone number?”

“I had moved since the last time I had consulted for them.”

“Okay – I guess that explains it.” Daniel didn’t look completely convinced, but he wasn’t as wary as he’d been a moment ago. “I do want to invite you to the handing over ceremony at Vincent’s offices – “

“His offices? Not the Embassy?”

“No. I thought that was strange too, but he explained that the Embassy is in Washington, not New York, and that even if I went to the Consulate here, there could be problems. You see – those places are technically Japanese sovereign territory, and as soon as I walked inside, they could take the sword and even arrest me. Vincent’s just looking out for my interests.”

“Ah.” That didn’t really seem like the Vincent Adler he knew, but it made sense.

Dan continued. “Anyway, I was worried why the FBI was looking for you – because you were a criminal or something. I mean, I know that your name really isn’t Nicholas Halden, you’re too smart to use your real name and the FBI guys were careful not to tell me the name of who they were looking for.”

Like the other night, when Neal had been so sick after getting fucked over by Adler, Dan shocked him with his perceptiveness. “Anyway, I couldn’t lie to the FBI. I told them that I’d picked you up at your place a few times. I gave them the address, and that was that. I hope you’re not angry that I talked to them.”

“No, Dan, I’m not. It wasn’t a problem. I spoke with Agent Berrigan a few days ago.”

“Were you able to help her?”

“No, not really.”

“Ah.” Dan looked into his wineglass. “Well, anyway – like I said – I wanted to invite you to the ceremony, but if you were in trouble or anything, I didn’t think it was a good idea.”

Neal smiled and stroked Dan’s hand. “That’s okay. And while I would love to be there, this is your day to shine. We’ll get together afterwards and you’ll tell me all about it, okay?”

Dan gave him that sweet, childlike grin. “Sounds good to me.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Diana scrubbed at her face; it was way too early to be this tired. _That’s what you get for partying like you’re nineteen when you’re really thirty-nine._

“Uh oh, looks like someone had a little too much fun the other night. Was it the twins?”

“Really? You really have to start off the New Year with sexual innuendo, Jones? Do I have to have you sent for sensitivity training?” It was an idle threat, of course. They knew each other too well, too long to be offended. Besides, she often gave as good as she got.

Clinton laughed and flopped into the guest chair. “Hey, I saw you dancing, remember. You were burning up the dance floor. And those two blondes were right there with you, all the way.”

“What were you even doing at a gay nightclub on New Year’s Eve?”

“Cruising?”

“Pull the other one. Oh, wait – don’t unless you want me to puke all over you.”

“Then I guess you don’t want this.” Jones picked up a familiar green and white coffee cup and how the hell had she not seen him bring that in? “It’s got an extra shot.”

“Gimme. Now. If you know what’s good for you.”

He handed her the cup. It was a perfectly light cappuccino, more foam than milk. She took a sip and felt just a bit more human as the caffeine hit her bloodstream. “For this, I will forgive you for the bad news you’re surely bringing.”

“I saw Hughes this morning.”

“The old man’s in the building today?”

“Yeah, he and Bancroft.”

Diana’s headache was returning, with compounded interest. “And they’re making the rounds.”

“They wanted to know how the Division is handling Adler. I told them the request for warrants on his phones and email were denied. They wondered about the probity of the judge, the judge’s clerk and the U.S. Attorney’s office.”

“And they wondered if the office’s token lesbian was up to handling the case?” Diana was truly pissed. “If they had questions, they could have – they should have – asked me.”

“It was an elevator conversation, nothing more. They’ll be by, I’m sure of it. But you know that Hughes and Bancroft stand behind you, they always have.”

Diana let herself be mollified. “So, how long have I got?”

“Probably until the afternoon.”

“Thanks Clinton, you may be an asshole, but you’re still my best friend. The coffee and the heads-up are most appreciated.” 

He stood and gave her a two-fingered salute. “Always a pleasure to assist.”

Diana spent the next few hours putting together her notes. The cappuccino Clinton brought her was long gone, and she was already on her third mug of the stomach-rotting swill from the office pot when it happened. Her cell phone buzzed with an incoming text and reaching into her pocket, she knocked the cup over. At least it was almost empty and missed her paperwork, but just those few ounces created a horrific mess.

She blotted up the liquid with bunches of extra napkins from far too many lunches eaten at her desk, wiping her mouse and the keyboard. It didn’t take long to clean everything up, and when Diana settled back, the picture on her screen shocked her into immobility. It was Vincent Adler, wearing a tuxedo and sitting next to a vaguely familiar man.

Between cleaning up the keyboard and flinging her mouse around, she had apparently opened the email from that photographer, the one that had taken the picture of Neal. But how the hell?

She remembered that the woman had sent her a whole bunch of pictures, but she had only looked at the one of Neal with his boyfriend. And thinking of Neal, she remembered where she saw the guy sitting next to Adler. He was Neal’s apartment mate. 

 

Small world. Neal Caffrey’s dating a crazy art collector and his friend was seeing Vincent Adler.

_“He could be a pro.”_

Diana hadn’t really thought about that when Ms. Ellis suggested it, he didn’t seem the type. But it was starting to make sense. Maybe Caffrey was a professional escort, and maybe his friend was too. 

She knew all about walkers – her own mother had one in every city she’d lived. Her father was too busy to escort her to all of those parties and balls and galas, so she hired companionship for the evening. It was convenience, not infidelity. The night always ended at the front door, and most of the guys were gay, anyway. It wouldn’t surprise Diana to know that men, particularly out and proud men, would hire walkers, too. 

Her first instinct was to rush back to Yorkville and sweat some information out of Neal and this other guy, but she changed her mind pretty quickly. Neal wasn’t the kind of man who crumbled – he had preferred to do hard time at Sing-Sing than take the deal that U.S. Attorney had offered. Peter Burke seemed to be even less likely to succumb to that kind of pressure. But maybe a quiet conversation with Caffrey on neutral ground might yield the cooperation she so desperately needed. She had one chance at this.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Elizabeth liked to take the week after New Year’s and meet with all of her “consultants.” Most of these meetings were pleasant, she would pay out a small bonus, and once or twice, to let a man go.

She skipped Peter’s – they’d met a few weeks ago. She was still upset about the thing with Vincent Adler, but the quality of that upset was more non-plussed than pissed-off, if only because her client was poaching. And even though Peter was the last person in her employ that needed a bonus, she gave him one, just because she was feeling magnanimous.

Neal was her most recent addition to the stable, and thus, the last on her list. She had him come down to her storefront in Lower Manhattan, the one she maintained for the event planning business. This week, Mitchell Premier Events was closed, it was the perfect time and the perfect place.

Promptly at noon on the first Wednesday in January, Neal knocked on the plate glass door and she let him in. He huddled against the wind, and carrying a gift bag.

“Cold one out there.”

“At least it’s not snowing.”

“Yeah.” 

Neal leaned over and kissed her cheek. She shivered from the contact with his chilled skin. 

“Here – happy holidays.” He handed her the bag. From the looks of it, it was a bottle of wine – something always appreciated.

“Come, sit. Coffee?” She didn’t wait for his answer, pressing the button on her automatic espresso machine. It hissed and chirped and produced a tiny, perfectly made cup of coffee.

She handed him the cup. “It’s an indulgence, but worth it. I’d probably spend more each year at a café.”

Neal took a sip and whether he was just being polite, or he truly enjoyed it, he gave her a look of appreciation. “It’s good – almost as good as the Caffé Greco in Rome.”

She let him enjoy the drink and opened her present. “Neal – you are too kind.” It was wine, a 2004 Barolo that must have set him back a few bucks.

“You seemed the type who would appreciate it. Just make sure Moz doesn’t see it, though. He’ll liberate it from your collection without a word.”

“I know – I’ve ‘lost’ quite a few bottles to him. I’ve taken to searching that messenger bag before he leaves my place.”

“He visits often?” Neal’s curiosity was deliberately idle.

“Often enough.” She answered with equal aplomb.

Neal grinned at her, well aware of what she was doing. He was infinitely curious about her relationship with Moz, but she was perverse enough not to want to enlighten him. “Okay, so why am I here? Is there a problem?”

“No, not at all. I just like to meet with everyone and get a health and sanity check – see how you are doing, see what’s going on, if things can be improved or changed. Give you a chance to air out any grievances. Basically, a performance review.”

Neal chuckled, “You read that in _Escorts and Outcall Quarterly_?” 

Elizabeth found his amusement infectious and laughed, too. “Yeah, I know it seems a little ridiculous, but it works.”

“So, am I doing a good job?” Trust Neal to take control. Not for the first time, Elizabeth wondered if this manifested in the more private aspects of his life.

“You are doing very well. All of your clients are extremely satisfied. If you’d let me, I’d have you working every night.”

“And I’m not going to let you. I’m happy with three nights a week and an afternoon. Don’t need, don’t want more than that.”

El had figured that would be his answer. “No more problems with Dan Picah?”

“No, we’re cool. But why?”

“I had gotten a call from him right before Christmas. Said that you had gotten sick at some gala, but he took you home. He didn’t want a refund or anything, but wanted me to know you were okay. How come you didn’t tell me this?”

Neal’s face went blank. His smile stayed in place, he didn’t flush or go pale, but his eyes emptied of emotion, just for a second or two. “I’m sorry – didn’t realize you’d need to know that. I must have eaten something that disagreed with me. Dan was a good guy. He took me home and I kind of crawled into bed and fell asleep. Woke up the next morning feeling fine. Didn’t give it another thought.”

She could have called bullshit on him, but she got the feeling that he’d get up, walk out and she’d never see him again. And that wasn’t going to happen. “Okay – just let me know if you do get sick. Some clients aren’t as understanding as Dan.”

Neal nodded and they chatted about a few things – some upcoming events that she was having him work, whether he’d be interested in obtaining health insurance, which he was. 

“Anything you’d like to add? Anything about how I work, anything you feel you need from me?” 

“You are really into this, aren’t you?”

“Well, a happy employee – excuse me, consultant – is a good employee.”

“Actually, there is one thing.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah – you have a client, Vincent Adler.”

El’s eyes narrowed. She wondered if Peter had been indiscreet, but Neal explained. “We were both at the Ballet Gala – the one where I got sick. I saw him there with Peter. And you know, we do live together. Peter doesn’t talk about clients and neither do I, but we do tell each other where we’re going.”

“Okay.” Elizabeth relaxed. So what about Mr. Adler.”

“Is he, well, firmly committed to Peter? Do you ever pair him with another man?”

She gave him a noncommittal answer. “Why?”

“Well, Vincent Adler has a real reputation in the art world. He has a foundation – “

“Yes, the Antiquities Recovery Project.” El didn’t need to tell Neal that she’d managed the Project’s fund raising events for the last five years.

“He’s also an avid art collector.”

She could see where Neal was going. She knew he had artistic aspirations. “I don’t like it when my consultants solicit my clients. You’re not hired to make a pitch to him.”

“I wouldn’t be so unmannered, Elizabeth! I just would like to get a lay of the land, so to speak.”

“Hmmm.” She _had_ considered pairing Neal with Adler. “Vincent and Peter have parted company, and I haven’t heard from him in a few weeks. I know he’s been away. But if he does call, I’ll set you up. And remember, no upselling, if you know what I mean.”

“Of course not.” 

She didn’t trust Neal or his smile, but she accepted it.

They chatted for a few more minutes before Neal excused himself. He was heading over to his studio and wanted to get to work on a new project.

She was getting ready to leave – there was nothing at the shop that needed her attention – when her cell phone rang. Elizabeth recognized the number and smiled. There was a reason why serendipity was her favorite word.

“Vincent, happy New Year. I hope you had a good time in the Caymans.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

When Neal had asked El to set him up with Adler, it was something of a Hail Mary play. He hadn’t expected her to call him fifteen minutes after he left her.

“I’ve sold you to Adler.”

_What a terrible choice of words._

“Actually, he seems quite eager to meet you. Meet Nick Halden.”

“Ah, good, when?” He was still walking to his studio and the cold was stealing his breath.

“Tonight. You’ll go to his apartment.” She gave him the address. It was a new one since Neal had been Nick and sat – literally and metaphorically – at Vincent’s feet. “Look sharp, he’s going to take you to dinner and will want to show you off. But I don’t need to tell you that – you’d look good in an orange jumpsuit.”

“Very funny, Elizabeth.” He had to ask. “And after dinner, any plans?”

“He didn’t say, but you’ll know what to do and what not to do.”

“Yeah. Thanks for this.”

She rang off and instead of continuing to his studio, Neal headed towards the subway and home. Tonight was too important not to be prepared in every possible way. At seven-thirty sharp, he presented himself at the door of Adler’s Central Park West penthouse. The predatory look in Vincent’s eyes was as chilling as it was compelling.

But he didn’t say anything to Neal about the past, at least not then and not through dinner at one of New York’s five-star restaurants. Vincent gave him an arched look or two, but that was it. The conversation was neutral to the point of stultifying. Neal was patient, he knew that the evening and its entertainment would begin when they got back, when Vincent would hand him a snifter of brandy and take one for himself.

He wasn’t wrong.

“I remember when you first worked for me.” Vincent was relaxed, but his voice was husky from arousal. “You were so beautiful – young, intelligent, impressionable. A man barely past boyhood, and already smarter than all of the Ivy League ass lickers I had on my payroll combined. You were a sponge, soaking up everything that I told you, and I never had to tell you anything twice. And there were times that I didn’t even need to tell you anything once – you could anticipate my needs, my desires. You enjoyed it.”

Neal shivered at the memory. Adler was right, he had relished his position as right-hand-man, seeing to Vincent’s every need and desire. _Every desire._

The trip down memory lane continued. “That’s what made you, in your cheap clothes and resoled shoes, something worth investing in. A few handmade suits, some lessons in the finer things in life, access to my pretty assistant on a regular basis. You were so easy to keep happy, like some goddamned Iowa farm boy on his first trip to the big city. You were even easier to corrupt.”

Neal kept his own expression cool, as if he were only vaguely interested in what Vincent had to say.

“Pity that it was all a lie. I knew that Nick Halden was about as real as the contents of that bottle of ‘82 Bordeaux you gave me. It took less than two days to get through the tin foil and tissue paper that ‘Nick’ had used to create his identity. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that Nick Halden wasn’t an up-and-coming young businessman, but Neal Caffrey, forger _nonpareil_ and small time grifter with a taste for antiquities and the finer things in life.”

He raised his glass in a toast to Neal. “I have to give it to you – it takes a lot to get into my organization and you managed it brilliantly. I was so tempted to keep you on, make Nick real. To make Neal disappear forever.”

That surprised Neal. “So why didn’t you?”

“The FBI was after Neal Caffrey, and they weren’t going to let you go so easily. I would have had to make your case go away.”

“How would you have done that?” Neal was curious. He knew Vincent had juice – he’d seen him pull the strings and make very powerful people dance to his tune.

“A few ways – the easiest would have been to have the case agent taken out.”

“You would have put a hit on an FBI agent?” Neal was appalled. Murder had never seemed Adler’s style.

“In some ways, you are still so pedestrian, Neal. That would have been the last resort. No – she would have been transferred to someplace less salubrious to her career and your file buried before her replacement had his first cup of coffee.”

 _Her_. Vincent wasn’t bluffing – he knew that Diana Berrigan had been on him like a terrier after a rat, and just as relentless. “Ah. So why didn’t you?”

“My research was very thorough. Your agent was a little too well connected, has family in the State Department. She would have made a stink about getting reposted to some outpost in flyover country. It was just easier to let your little con game play out and then cut you lose. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t have a good time with the lovely, delectable, and oh-so-willing Mr. Halden in the meanwhile.”

Neal swallowed against the sour taste of his memories. He had been willing, he had been eager, and in that eagerness, complicit to his own moral destruction.

Vincent was still caught up in his own memories. “You know, I was almost sorry that young Nick had been so willing. Maybe if he’d played a little hard to get, maybe if you’d been a little more of a challenge to corrupt, I would have kept you on.” He licked his lips, his tongue snake-like.

“Even so, I had so much fun with Nick, with you. Leading you on, making you my very own creature. You would have given it all up for me, the con, the lies, even Kate if I asked you to. You loved belonging to me, and you did. I branded myself on you.” Adler looked at him, eyes piercing – as if they were x-rays into his soul. “I still own you, all I have to do is call and you come running. Like a dog to a bitch in heat.”

In that moment, Neal realized that Adler didn’t have the same hold over him. Yes, there was a part of him that would always respond to a display of power, dominance. Something in him relished giving over control to someone stronger. No, to someone _better_ , and Vincent Adler wasn’t better – he was a bully and a thug in a good suit. The only hold that the man had over him was what Neal chose to give him, and right now, he wasn’t going to give him anything more than what he was paid for. He found his voice, his will, and he remembered why he was here.

Still relaxed, still nonchalant, he commented, “Actually, Vincent, I’m here because you’ve bought me for an evening. I’m not here because of some twisted metaphysical connection to you. You had it right when we met a few weeks back. I’m a whore, I am paid to fuck and you’re paying me very well. No need to dress it up in pretty clothes. You like whores, you enjoy paying for sex. I like getting paid, nothing wrong with that. You even called it the other night.”

Neal leaned back, watching the anger flare in Adler’s eyes.

It was so clear that his former mentor, his client didn’t like when the tables were turned. “Yes, well. That is true. And you are a very beautiful whore.”

“Thank you.” Neal inclined his head, a regal gesture. “I remember what you like.” He stood up, took off his jacket and started to undo his tie, then his shirt. Adler licked his lips again, but the gesture seemed one of nerves.

“For a whore, you’re very forward.”

“Hmm, you don’t like this? You don’t want this?” Neal ghosted a hand down his chest.

Vincent stood up, they were eye to eye. “You’ve grown up, Neal. You’ve changed. Gotten harder.”

“Life has a way of doing that.” He continued to work the buttons of his shirt loose.

“So it does. We all change. We all grow and want different things.” Vincent pushed his hands away. “I like the old games, true, but you’re so much more than that callow young man who worshipped me. Maybe it’s time we found some new games?”

“New games, Vincent? The way I remember it, there was nothing we didn’t do – no kink too perverted for you to try out, no abasement too extreme for me to endure and enjoy.”

The smile on Adler’s face worried Neal – it was one of fondness, one that a man who genuinely cared for another human being might wear. It was not a smile that ever graced this man’s mouth – at least not that Neal had seen.

“That’s what I mean, Neal. Maybe we were too extreme? Maybe we should just enjoy the moment. Forget the past, our past; forget the kink and the toys and the perversions.”

“You want plain vanilla?” Neal didn’t bother to hide his incredulity. “You’d be bored in five minutes.”

“Maybe, but I’m not afraid to try.” Adler ran a hand from Neal’s shoulder to wrist, his fingers resting against his pulse point. “You can’t tell me that you’re not intrigued. I can feel your heart racing.”

Of course, this was all a game. Neal wasn’t the least bit fooled by Adler’s volt-face. The man was trying to reassert control over the evening. If this was the game he wanted to play, then fine. He’d get his money’s worth.

“I’ve always admired you, you know that. Take away everything else, there was always that.” Neal ducked his head, pretending shyness.

“And I have never lost my fondness for you – you were always my favorite protégé. Like I told you earlier, I wanted to keep you but circumstances made that impossible. Now I can’t help but wonder what a power you would have been if things had gone differently.” Vincent tucked a finger under Neal’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet.

Neal wasn’t surprised at the triumph he saw there. He could use that. “I’ve missed you, too. I’ve never stopped thinking about you.” Lies upon lies, but useful ones.

“Ah, my beautiful, beautiful boy. You’re here, back where you belong. You’re mine and you won’t forget that ever again.”

 _I’m yours for the night, you bastard. I’m yours for the five grand you’ve paid Elizabeth and the three grand in cash that’s on the bar. I’m an expensive fuck and you’re getting your money’s worth._ He didn’t say that. He just opened his lips and let Adler kiss him; let him stick his tongue in his mouth. He moaned because, yes, it felt good and there was no need to fake desire. It was no worse than having sex with Daniel or Steven or Patrick. Vincent was a client just like every other man – everyone except Peter.

Hands stole beneath his shirt, hot and eager. Adler started kissing his jaw, his throat, his neck, his shoulder, all the while crooning words of praise and affection. Whatever Neal replied with must have satisfied him, because Vincent took his hand and led him back towards the bedroom. Neal went willingly. He needed to keep Peter away from Adler, and this was the only way to do it.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It felt strange not to be out on a Wednesday night. Wednesdays had been Adler’s for so long that he had forgotten what it felt like not to have to go out. Of course, there had be the rare weeks that Adler had been traveling and Peter had stayed in New York, but that didn’t happen too often and never two weeks in a row.

El had booked him for a job tomorrow night, and that was going to be strange, too. He had made it a point of never working back-to-back nights, so Thursdays were almost always spent at home. Now his schedule was reversed. He was a creature of habit and the change was disconcerting.

A little after eleven, he got ready for bed. But Peter wasn’t tired and he couldn’t relax. He thought about jerking off, which might take the physical edge off, but he knew from experience that it wouldn’t still an unquiet mind. 

Peter knew that he was fast approaching the crossroads to his life. 

He had started working as an escort because he was bored and lonely, and in a moment of frank reflection, depressed. He had never been ashamed of who and what he was, but maybe he never felt like his skin fit. There were certain expectations about being wealthy and gay in New York – that he was supposed to flirt and dance and fuck with abandon. But just as the AIDS crisis, which erupted when he was coming of age, deepened a well-bred natural caution, the humiliation of his one long-term relationship calcified his heart. 

In retrospect, it all seemed kind of ridiculous; becoming a prostitute because he was too scared to open himself up to the possibility of getting hurt. All those months ago, when he had met with El after that single, fabulous night with “Nick”, and she said he was close to quitting, she was right. He was done, but not because he didn’t want to be arm candy for the rich and useless any longer, but because maybe he was finally ready to admit that he needed more out of life.

He was sure of it, now. Cutting ties with Adler cinched it. He didn’t need the money and he had someone in his life that he cared about. He didn’t want to leave Elizabeth in the lurch, but this was _his_ life. He’d finish the jobs she’d booked for him and that would be it.

 _But what about Neal?_ He couldn’t help but want Neal to leave the life, too. In a moment of complete self-honesty, he had to admit that he didn’t like the idea of another man touching Neal. But he also had to admit that it wasn’t his choice. Neal was a grown man in a unique situation. All his talents, all his brains, all of that sparkling intelligence were dismissed because of his past. Finding meaningful employment with a felony conviction, not to mention those four years at one of the most notorious prisons in the country, was probably impossible.

He wanted to tell Neal to quit, that he’d support him so he could focus on his art, but he was afraid to. Every month, Neal handed him a check for his share of the monthly maintenance with pride. It was clear to Peter that his partner needed to be self-supporting and right now, working as an escort seemed to be the best way to do that. Just because he didn’t like that other men touched Neal didn’t mean he had the right to insist that Neal quit.

But maybe they should talk about it. Maybe if he told Neal he was leaving the life, Neal would follow suit. Maybe if he stretched himself, used some of his old contacts, maybe he could find Neal work that didn’t involve taking showers in other men’s bathrooms three nights a week.

Peter checked the time, it was almost one and Neal probably wouldn’t be home for another hour or so. He thought it unusual that Neal was working tonight – he usually went out with a friend, although he was a little cagey about just who that friend was and what they did. Peter, very conscious of lines and boundaries, didn’t press about who he was with or where he went. He didn’t worry either, most Wednesdays Neal was free to meet him at their usual spot after his date with Adler was over.

There was no point trying to sleep now, his brain was too busy and even if he managed to fall asleep, he’d only wake up when Neal got home. Peter turned on the lamp, put on his cheaters and reached for the book he’d been reading on and off for the past few weeks, A.B. Tattersall’s _Snap of the Twig._ It was supposed to be a gripping mystery, but Peter found it pretentious and overly stylized. He figured out the crime within the first fifty pages, but continued to slog through it.

A slow ninety minutes later, he heard the lock turn and the front door open and shut. A few quiet beeps and the alarm was set.

“Peter, why are you still up?” Neal’s voice had a bit of an edge to it. Not really anger, but something.

“Couldn’t sleep and it was late enough that I figured that I’d wait up for you. I guess I’m too much of a night owl.”

Neal started to undress, tossing his suit on the club chair in the corner. “Then I’m in good company.” He twisted his head and the tendons in his neck popped audibly. “I need to shower, be back in a few.”

“You didn’t before you left?” Peter wondered how Neal’s evening ended – if it was just a social event.

“No – honestly, it’s too cold to go outside with wet hair. Hope that’s not a problem?” 

“No, of course not.” Peter had to wonder at the oddly stilted nature of this conversation. Maybe it was just the hour. “Go shower, I’ll take care of your stuff.”

Neal smiled at him and went to the bathroom. 

Peter tossed back the covers, put the book and his glasses on the night table and went to hang up Neal’s suit. In the few weeks since Lake George, they’d gotten into the habit of doing things like this, especially on nights when one worked and the other didn’t. 

It was amazing how easily they had slipped into roles of caring for each other – even when they were just sharing an apartment. Peter liked it; it made him feel like a married man, one who’d been with his partner for half a lifetime. He could see himself with Neal down the long road.

Peter hung up Neal’s suit jacket, checking the pockets, putting his phone and wallet on the dresser. The tie was fine, and he rolled it up and added it to the collection in the bureau they shared. Without thinking Peter did a sniff-test on Neal’s shirt, and his happy train of thought stopped cold.

He knew that odor; it was the scent of another man’s cologne. And not just any man’s – it belonged to someone he knew well. Someone who had his scents custom blended.

_Vincent Adler._

What the hell was Neal doing with Adler?

Peter dismissed that question out of hand. Adler needed a date, he called Elizabeth and she set him up with Neal. Objectively, they made a very good match. Both men were smart, well-bred (and whatever Neal’s background was, he carried himself like a prince), had refined tastes, and Peter knew from experience, that Vincent would find Neal an exquisite bed companion.

But it didn’t mean he had to like it. And in truth, he found it disturbing and repulsive. He balled the shirt up and stuffed it into the bag for the dry cleaners and fought the urge to go into the bathroom and scrub Neal clean.

Things clicked together, the strain in Neal’s voice when he came in, his odd behavior about not showering. Peter wondered just what Vincent did to him.

He stood there, holding the laundry bag, brain whirling with so many ugly possibilities. He might have stood there all night but the sound of the pipes creaking as the shower turned off broke him out of his stasis. Neal came back into the bedroom, a towel around his waist and he was using another one to rub dry his hair.

“You okay?”

Peter tossed the laundry bag back into the closet. “Yeah, fine. Just got tired.” 

Neal reached around him and grabbed his sleep pants, brushing a minty kiss against his lips. “Then let’s go to sleep. It’s already tomorrow.” 

He got into bed and Peter followed. As Neal settled against him – back resting against his chest, buttocks against his groin, Peter worked to put his fears away. But he had to ask, “You okay, Neal?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” 

Peter might have imagined it, but as his partner snuggled deeper into his embrace, he thought he heard him say _“Now”_.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Diana cursed the cold as she waited for Neal Caffrey to leave his apartment. The heater was on, her feet were warm enough, but with the window open, her face and torso were freezing. If she closed the window, it would fog up and she’d see nothing. She’d been here since nine, she’d seen Peter Burke leave and come back, with a bag from the local bagel shop, and her mouth watered at the thought of a fresh, hot cinnamon raisin bagel, slathered in butter.

She could have approached him, but her intel and their only prior encounter told her that he wouldn’t be receptive to anything she had to say.

She’d give it another half hour and head back to the office. 

_Bingo_ , there he was, unmistakable in that black felt trilby. She rolled up the window and got out of her car, dodging traffic to catch up with her target. “Neal, Neal Caffrey. Wait a moment.”

He heard her, and thankfully stopped. “Well, well, well – what brings you around again, like a bad penny?”

“Can we talk? Someplace warmer?”

Neal shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “Sure, there’s a coffee shop on the next block.”

They didn’t talk as they walked, it was too damn cold to do both. Walking into the promised coffee shop, the blast of warm air was almost painfully hot on her icy cheeks. Neal led her to the back, to a booth that afforded them some privacy. A waitress, still sporting a red and white Santa cap, came by to take their order. 

Diana didn’t care about the quality of the coffee, as long as it was hot. She ordered hers light and sweet and waited for Neal to make a comment; he didn’t. He ordered his black and raised an eyebrow at her.

She waited for their order to arrive and the waitress to leave before saying anything. “Happy New Year, Neal.”

“You mean you’ve had my building under surveillance for half a day just to wish me a happy New Year?”

She wasn’t surprised that Neal knew she been watching. “Well, I’ve always liked you.” 

“I hope so. You chased me for three years. I sent you birthday cards for four years. We’ve bonded.” Neal’s tone was gently sarcastic.

“So, truce?”

“It depends. Are you still thinking I’m your prime suspect for those slash-and-grabs?”

Diana laughed. With everything, she had forgotten about that. “Actually, we’ve arrested a suspect. A whole bunch of suspects.”

“Really?”

“Yup. Turns out that it was a gang of college students – they were stealing on orders from their criminology professor.”

“You’re kidding me!” 

“Nope, not at all. We started seeing some forgeries pop up in the international art market, took a look at the gallery guest books and tracked a few of the visitors back to East Side University. They were all taking the same class. Didn’t take much to get them to crack. Young, stupid and too caught up in the thrill of it all. Once they realized they’d be facing hard time, the operation folded like a house of cards and they gave up their professor on a platter.”

“The artwork?”

“Of course you’d be interested in that. We got everything back and the damage to the canvases was minimal.”

“Good.” Neal took a sip of his coffee and made a face before reaching for the sugar. “So, you were waiting in sub-zero temperatures to apologize? Why not just come in and ring the bell?”

“Actually, Neal – that’s not why I need to see you. And I didn’t want to run into your apartment mate. Peter, right?”

Neal nodded. 

Diana cut to the chase. She reached into her purse and pulled out two folders, checking one before handing it to Neal. “Tell me about Vincent Adler and why the hell you’re in this picture?” 

Neal opened the file, and she couldn’t read anything in his expression. The picture in the file was an old one – from the early oughts and Neal was in his very early twenties, all floppy hair and serious eyes. He looked like he was ready to yank the camera out of the photographer’s hands. 

“How did you find this?”

“The question I have to ask is how did I not know that you were associated with Adler. I knew everything about you back then.”

“Not everything, obviously.”

“I knew your shoe size, what you ate for breakfast and the fact that you never graduated high school, despite having a perfect GPA and a full scholarship at Harvard. This –” She tapped the photo, “I knew nothing about.”

Neal shook his head, turned and looked out the window before meeting her eyes. “For a short space of time – six months or so – I worked for Vincent Adler as his Vice President of Acquisitions. It was a very meteoric rise and an equally dramatic fall.”

“Care to tell me about it?”

“No, not really. But why do you want to know?”

Diana debated with herself. She had a gut feeling that if she played it straight with Caffrey, she might just get somewhere. “I’m investigating him. Justice thinks he’s dirty, involved in everything from commodities manipulation to selling arms to Iraq and nuclear fission technology to the Iranians, but we’ve never been able to get close.”

“So, you found that picture when you were digging through some old files?”

“No, not really. I found it because I was looking for pictures of Adler with this man. Who I think you know.” Diana opened the other folder, the one with the picture of Peter Burke sitting next to Vincent Adler at the Ballet gala.

Neal turned icy pale, his lips thinned. He was furious. “You keep away from Peter. He’s got nothing to do with Adler.”

“I am not so sure about that, Neal. How long have you known this guy? A few months?”

“Long enough to know that Peter Burke is not involved in any of Adler’s schemes.”

“Then what is his relationship with him? Because it looks to me like they are quite involved.” Diana tapped the photo were Adler’s hand covered Peter’s.

“What I tell you – you have to promise me that it goes no further.” Neal leaned over the table, his eyes blazing.

Diana pulled out her badge and placed it on the table. “As long as that’s there – you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Neal looked at it, looked back at her and let a smile twist his lips. “I’m trusting you – you’ve never played me for a fool.”

“And I’m not starting now.”

“Your parents are diplomats, right?”

“My father’s with the State Department.”

“Your mother, she moves in the social circles. Charities and fundraisers, all the good and worthy causes?”

“Yeah – she does.”

“And I bet your dad doesn’t squire her around to all the events.”

“No.” She knew where this was going. “You mean to tell me that Vincent Adler hires walkers?”

“It’s a little different for men. But yeah.”

“So, your friend Peter’s just a convenience?”

Neal clearly didn’t like that adjective. “He has a job to do and does it very well.”

“He’s also a licensed CPA and financial planner with an impressive resume and more impressive portfolio. Seems to me that he’s the type of guy who’d be hiring an escort, not working as one.”

Neal shrugged. “Peter’s reasons for doing what he does are his own. I do know that just before Christmas, Adler terminated their ‘relationship.’ Peter’s not seeing him anymore.”

“Why should I believe you. You’re obviously protective of Peter Burke, you’d lie to keep me out of his life.”

“I’m not lying. And I know that his services aren’t required by Adler anymore because he’s my client now.”

There was little affect in Neal’s last sentence, and the lack of emotion told her a lot. “You’re doing outcall, too.”

A thin, mean smile graced Caffrey’s lips. “You’ve called it, Agent Berrigan. There’s a public side and a private side. The private side is between me and my client, the public side is fully reported and taxed at the appropriate rates.”

“I don’t care about your goddamned taxes, Neal. You’re a prostitute!” 

“And keep your goddamned voice down. I live in this neighborhood.”

Diana shook her head, actually angry that Neal Caffrey, one of the most brilliant men she had ever met, was reduced to this.

“I don’t answer to you, Agent Berrigan. It’s a job and I’m good at it. No one gets hurt and everyone goes home satisfied.”

“I can still think it’s a waste of your talents.”

“Really, what would you have me do? Scrub out toilets, empty the trash in office buildings? Because I couldn’t even get a job at MacDonald’s with a felony record. I earn enough in a week to live the very good life. I have fun and I make people happy, so what the _fuck_ is wrong with that? You have no right to judge me.” Neal stood up and reached for his wallet. “Coffee’s on me.”

Diana cursed at herself, this went bad way too quickly. She did the only thing she could think of. She apologized. “You’re right, I have no right to judge you and if this keeps you on the right side of the law, then I should applaud your choice, not belittle it. I need your help, please.”

Neal looked like he was still about to flee. “You’re going to take Adler down?”

“I want to bury him.”

“Then I want to help you.” Neal sat.

“You can start by telling me everything you know about the Adler organization.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter pushed open the door of the Mitchell Premier Events storefront and nodded to Yvonne, Elizabeth’s long-time and long-suffering assistant. Her boss was with some clients, but Peter wasn’t going to leave and come back. He needed to talk with her and he was prepared to wait, all day if necessary.

Yvonne took him into the back. “You want a cup of coffee?”

“No, I’m fine.” It was a few degrees shy of zero outside, but Peter’s anger kept him warm. “Will Elizabeth be long?”

“No, she’s just finishing up with the Pedersons. This is the fourth or fifth time they’ve come back and changed the color of the linens and table settings.”

Peter couldn’t care less about that, but he made some noncommittal comment and paced the small room. This was where it all began, three years ago. And it just might end here, too.

After a half-hour, he heard Elizabeth bid her clients goodbye, and if he still wasn’t so angry, he would have smiled at the exasperation in her voice. She came into the office, fixed herself a cup of coffee and gave him a quizzical expression.

He wasn’t going to be diplomatic. “Why the hell did you set up Neal with Adler?”

Elizabeth, who probably never retreated a day in her adult life, fired back, “Who the hell are you to come in here and make demands like that?”

“You shouldn’t have done it, El. Do you have any idea?” His own natural reticence warred with the need to tell her just what type of man Vincent Adler was.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but he’s a perfect match for Adler, better than you I think.”

Peter wanted to throw something, break something. The strength of his rage was appalling. “You don’t understand.”

“Oh, I think I do, all too clearly. You’re behaving like a dog in the manger. You forced Adler to call it quits with you, but you regret it, and now you don’t want him to have anyone else.”

Peter paused, his own sense of fairness got the upper hand. Of course, to her, it would seem this way. He needed to explain. He sat down, willed himself to speak rationally, calmly. “I don’t want to see Adler, I am glad to be quits of the man. I just don’t think it’s good to pair Neal with him.” At Elizabeth mulish expression he added, “For Neal’s sake.”

“Then tell me, why?”

“Vincent –” Peter grimaced. “He’s a man with certain tastes, shall we say…”

“Sexual?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t think Neal can handle them? He spent four years in Sing-Sing, I doubt there’s much that he can’t handle.”

His anger reignited. “And just because Neal might have survived rape before means it’s okay for him to be abused now? What medieval dungeon did you crawl out of? I thought better of you.”

Elizabeth scrubbed at her face. “I’m sorry – I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s just that Neal isn’t some tender naïf. He was smart enough to make it through four years of hard time without damage, and I’m certain he knows how to manage someone like Adler. Besides, the man’s not some vicious rapist.”

Peter didn’t comment and Elizabeth made the connection to his silence.

“He is?”

“He’s not nice, not in bed.”

“Has he hurt you?”

He chuckled, amused for the first time since Neal got home last night. “Me? I’ve got six inches and forty pounds on him. I could break him without breaking a sweat. But I know what he’s like and what he likes and I don’t like the idea of Neal in his bed.”

Elizabeth bit her lip and seemed to debate something. It looked like she had come to a decision and then discarded it. She looked at him again and Peter could see the proverbial light bulb come on over her head. “You and Neal, you’re – you’re together, aren’t you?”

Peter nodded, slowly. “Please, El – don’t think I’m jealous of Neal having sex with another man. He’s a professional escort. So am I.” This wasn’t the time to tell her that he was going to be hanging up his tuxedo and condom case. “Adler is not a good man, and I worry that Neal will suffer for that.”

“What do you want me to do, tell Adler that Neal’s no longer available? I can’t do that. You’ve already put my relationship with him on the brink. He called me this morning to tell me how satisfied he was with the arrangement and how pleased he’d be to engage Neal’s services on Wednesday nights for the foreseeable future.

“Peter, Neal’s a grown man who knows how to take care of himself. You can’t wrap him up in tissue paper and keep him safe. I’ll let him know that he never has to do anything that makes him uncomfortable, but until Neal tells me otherwise, I’m not going to cancel his bookings.”

Elizabeth considered the matter closed and there was nothing Peter could do, short of locking Neal in the apartment, to keep him from his next appointment with Adler. He stood up and before walking out, Peter turned back, “I hope you’re right, I hope that Neal doesn’t get caught up in something he can’t handle. Because if Adler hurts Neal, I will make sure it’s the last thing that he ever does.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“How did it go?”

Thursday afternoon, Dan had let Neal into his duplex apartment, greeting him with a kiss and a just-opened bottle of Krug. “Brilliantly. Everyone was really nice, the Ambassador came up from Washington. He bowed to me.”

Neal took the glass of Champagne that Dan offered him and gave him a deep bow in return.

“I do miss it, though.” They stood in front to the niche that formerly held the _Go Yoshihiro_ sword. “It’s like one of my children has gone away and won’t be coming back.” Dan leaned his head against Neal’s shoulder.

“You did a wise and generous thing. What’s that called? A mitzvah?”

“Yeah, that’s it. But it was my first major acquisition, and I’ll never see it again.”

“Not unless you go to Japan. Aren’t they going to put it in a museum?”

“I hate airplanes.” Dan got petulant and walked away. “Want to see my new armor? It’s a complete set of _ō-yoroi_ from the twelfth century…”

Neal asked himself for patience. He’d known Dan long enough to realize that he’d work his way back to the handing over ceremony without being prodded, but he’d clam up if pushed.

Something in his gut told him that Adler was up to something. Neal didn’t know what, or how, or why, but the man he knew a decade ago, and the man who played head games with him now wouldn’t have gotten involved with gentle, crazy, Daniel Picah. He might have contacted the Japanese Ambassador about the possibility of a missing National Treasure, but he wouldn’t have dirtied his hands with it. Not enough pay off for him.

“You coming, Nick?”

Neal followed Dan upstairs – the armor was in a glass case, beautifully lit. The collection in this apartment might have been eccentric and disorganized in the extreme, but Dan, at least, knew how to care for it.

“It’s magnificent.”

Dan sighed. “Yeah.”

“But you miss the sword.”

“Yeah.”

Neal leaned over and kissed Dan. It wasn’t unpleasant. They were about the same age, and if Dan was a little softer, a little less than physically impressive, he was also a mostly considerate lover, even in his eagerness.

They were done and Neal was thinking how pleasant it would be to doze when Dan asked him if he wanted to see pictures of the handing over ceremony. Of course, he agreed and Dan handed his smart phone.

“Most of the pictures were didn’t come out – it was kind of dark in the room.”

Neal flicked through the album. The images seemed deliberately ruined.

“I’ll be getting copies of the official photos, of course, but I wanted to have my own. Vincent’s assistant took most of these. I think he’s got a problem with tremors, because they’re all blurry.”

“But there are a couple of good ones.” There were two or three of the Ambassador and Adler standing by the sword. Neither man looked happy to be photographed. 

“I took those, which is why I’m not in them.” Dan’s tone was mournful.

Remembering his conversation with Agent Berrigan, Neal asked, “Can you email them to me?” 

“Why?

Neal wasn’t sure where the idea came from, or even why he’d want to do it, but he told Dan, “I’ll photoshop you into them. You _were_ there, after all.”

Of course, that devolved into a question about computers and computerized art and whether Nick liked to use computers in his art (he had once made the mistake of telling Dan that he “dabbled” in art). Eventually, though, the images were emailed to Nick Halden’s gmail account and Neal promised to get something back to Dan in a few days.

Neal figured he could always tell him that it didn’t work. Or Diana could tell Dan that he’d been scammed.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Elizabeth picked up her cell phone, her thumb hovering over the entry for “Nick Halden.” She had always known that Adler was a dangerous man, or perhaps ruthless was a better word. And maybe pairing him with Neal wasn’t the best thing for Neal, but Adler had definitely expressed satisfaction with the new arrangement.

So much so, that he contacted her a few minutes ago, asking her to retain Neal for him tonight. Nothing more than a quiet dinner, he was just eager for some companionship. So, she’d get paid and Neal would make his fee and then some.

But she couldn’t forget the conversation she had with Peter yesterday. She pressed her thumb on the entry and waited for Neal to answer.

_“Hey, El. What’s up?”_

“Have an assignment for you tonight.”

_“I worked Wednesday and saw Dan yesterday – that will make it three days in a row. You know I don’t like working back-to-back, let alone back-to-back-to-back.”_

“Mr. Adler would like to see you, have dinner with you tonight. It seems you’ve made a conquest.” She could hear Neal breathing, but he didn’t answer. “Sweetie?”

_“Okay. What time?”_

“Nine o’clock, his apartment. You remember the address?”

_“Yes – and El, thank you.”_

“Neal – “ She paused, uncertain how to proceed. 

_“What?”_

“You know, you don’t …” This was so awkward. She couldn’t get the words out.

_“I don’t, what?”_

“You don’t ever have to do anything you don’t want. You’re not a slave or anything. You don’t have to …”

_“I know that, but thank you anyway._

She thought she could hear him laughing at her, her naivety. “Okay, so long as we’re clear.”

_“As crystal.”_

She hung up, still thoughtful. Elizabeth was thrilled that Peter and Neal had hooked up, she was hoping for that outcome when she had suggested Neal move in with Peter all those months ago. Peter needed someone and he seemed to care for Neal even before he knew his real name. But what she didn’t like was keeping secrets. She didn’t tell Peter that Neal asked her to book him with Adler, and she didn’t tell Neal that Peter was upset that she did.

She only hoped that these secrets weren’t going to come back and bite her in the ass.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal thought that maybe, just maybe, someone had replaced the Vincent Adler he knew with a clone. Or maybe injected him with a personality altering drug. Because the man sitting across from him at the dinner table was charming, effusive, accessible.

Or it could have been a trick of the light.

“More wine?” Vincent held up the bottle, an ‘82 Pomérol Pétrus. “This is the real thing.”

That alone told Neal that this was all an act. Adler was playing with him. To what end, though, Neal wasn’t sure. But he pushed his glass forward and let Vincent refill it.

“Nice to have the real thing.”

“Yes, Neal, it is. I’ve always appreciated authenticity.”

Neal nodded. “Of course.”

“I have to confess, I really wasn’t too sure you’d work out at this.”

“This?”

Adler waved a hand. “The escort work. I mean, you are a natural whore, but the rest of it? It surprised me.”

 _So the game begins, again._ “You know, this is getting old. We went through this the other night. You called me a whore, a natural, I didn’t rise to the bait and we had a lovely time. Really, Vincent, the man I remembered had a lot more creativity.”

Neal wasn’t sure what to expect, but laughter was the last thing on his list. “Neal, Neal – you are magnificent. And you’re right – it’s too easy to fall into old patterns. The new ones are so delightfully challenging.” He stood up and held out a hand. “Come, I want to show you something.”

Alder led him into a room at the back of the apartment. He unlocked the door and turned on the lights. “My treasure room.”

Neal forgot how to breathe. Before him was a collection that rivaled ones in the world’s great museums. There was a Degas – one he had only seen in old photographs – maybe the _Entrance of the Masked Dancers_. Two of Claude Monet’s Water Lily paintings. A Rembrandt self-portrait. The Raphael that had been missing from the Polish national collection since the Nazis overran Europe. A Klimt – what looked to be a fragment of _Jurisprudence_ , which was supposed to have been destroyed as the Germans retreated from Vienna in ‘45. There were other works that Neal didn’t even recognize. Asian and African art, maybe some pre-Columbian pottery. A red figure Hellenic amphora. A T’ang Dynasty horse in glorious colored glazes. A Cycladic sculpture of a harp player. An amber music box.

His eyes flitted from wall to wall, display to display. It was too much to take in. “I – I don’t know what to say.”

Adler stood behind him, as close as he had that night in the men’s room. Neal was dizzy, his heart raced, like he was dying. 

“This is all mine. And no one except you knows it’s here.” Vincent enveloped him. “This is a game-changer, Neal. I’m trusting you, like I’ve never trusted anyone.”

“Why?” Of all the questions he wanted to ask, that was the only one he could verbalize.

“Because you’re the only one who’d appreciate it.” 

“How?” Neal turned, he didn’t understand any of this.

“Ah – that would really be telling. But let’s say that I had a little foreknowledge, a little help.” He walked over to the music box and lifted the lid. A sweet, lilting Mozart refrain played.

“Your foundation – The Antiquities Recovery Project – is it nothing more than a front?”

Adler smiled. “You were always quick. It’s legitimate when it has to be.”

What a strange thing to say. “And when it doesn’t?”

“My collection gets just a little bigger.” He pulled Neal deeper into the room. “Here, my latest acquisition.”

It was the _Go Yoshihiro_ – the sword that Dan had supposedly given back to the people of Japan. 

“Where did you get this?” Neal kept his question deliberately vague.

“From one of _your_ clients, Daniel Picah.”

Neal affected a puzzled look. “Ah – I think he had talked about a Japanese sword at that gala just before Christmas.”

Adler chuckled. “He didn’t shut up about it.”

“I’ve learned to tune him out.”

“He’s an idiot.”

Neal shrugged. “He pays well.”

“Ah, Neal the Whore, it always comes back to money.” Vincent brushed a finger against the display stand, making a minute adjustment.

“Yes, it certainly does.” Adler gave him a sharp look, but Neal shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “How did you do it?”

“The man’s a moron, it wasn’t hard at all. All I needed was the name of the Japanese Ambassador, an actor to impersonate him, and a calligrapher to forge a scroll thanking the twerp for the return of a national treasure. Told him that if he brought it to the consulate or the embassy, he’d be arrested.”

Adler’s voice was thick with arousal. He was getting off on the very idea of the scam he ran.

Neal had to say something. Anything. “I knew you were a wicked man, but I had no idea how wicked you really are.” Neal turned to face Vincent, wrapping an arm around his waist, rocking their hips together.

“Does it turn you on be in the presence of so much great art?” Vincent was pressing his lips against Neal’s neck, his breath hot, almost unbearably so.

“I don’t know which makes me hotter – the art, or what you’ve done.” His cock was getting hard, the friction and heat and yes, the thrill of this looted treasure, was arousing.

Adler laughed. “I’d like to fuck you here, on the floor, in the presence of all this art. I’d like to hear your moans echo against the walls as I shove my cock up your ass.” He rubbed against Neal, his cock thick and hard. “But I think not. I want to make this last.” 

He pulled Neal away from the sword, and then out of the room. The door locked with a heavy _thunk_. 

“You must have quite the security system.”

“Do you really think I’m going to tell _you_ , of all people?”

Neal laughed. “Of course not – but I can’t deny my own curiosity.”

“Let’s just say that everything’s safe, and to protect you, I’ll tell you this. The whole room is set up with tripwires. It will lock down and become an airless vault if any piece is moved. Whoever tries to steal from me will die of suffocation. And yes, I’ve tested it.” Adler didn’t smile, he didn’t blink, and Neal knew that he hadn’t used lab animals.

Vincent pulled him into the bedroom, pushed him towards the bed, hands hungry, mouth hungry, cock hungry. He rutted against him, tearing at Neal’s clothes, his own, and when Neal tried to help, Adler slapped his hands away. “You’re mine and you’ll do only what I’ll let you do. Don’t ever forget that.”

It was amazing how fear could be such an aphrodisiac. Neal’s cock jerked and his hips bucked against Vincent’s hands as the man undid his pants, pulling them down to his knees and then off completely. 

“I want to see your face when I make you come. I want to hear you scream my name.” Adler unbuttoned Neal’s shirt, his hands shaking in his eagerness. They were everywhere, pinching his nipples, nails scraping along his ribcage, tugging at the spare line of hair that arrowed down to his groin. They were stroking his cock, greedy and hot, tracing the veins, exploring and insatiable.

Neal closed his eyes and let the rising tide of arousal take him out to sea. He didn’t need to think about what Vincent was doing to him, what he was going to do. He concentrated, instead, on how to use what he’d just learned to bring Adler down, for good.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“You wanted to see me, _mon frère?_ ” Moz was a little annoyed at Neal’s urgent summons. Saturday mornings were sacrosanct. For what, it didn’t really matter.

“Thanks for coming over.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say I’m ‘over’ – you’ve yet to invite me into the holiest of holies.”

“Do you really want to meet Peter?”

“Peter? Late forties, six foot, three inches tall, complete head of hair, upper body strength of a Norse god? No, not really.”

“ _Moz –_ “ 

“Stop saying my name like that – I can hear the italics.”

“He’s a good guy. You’ll like him.”

“I like Gouda, too – but I know that it’s bad for me.” He grumbled, more out of form than out of any real displeasure. He’d met Peter Burke, on more than one occasion. Neal didn’t need to know the particulars. “Okay – what gives?”

“I need a safe house.”

Moz blinked, took off his glasses, carefully cleaning them before putting them back. “I thought you were settled.”

“Not to move to. I just need it for a few hours this afternoon. I need a place to meet someone; a place I know is clean.”

“What about a hotel?”

“Too easy to trace, too public.”

“Someone’s watching you?” Moz looked around, feeling eyes on him like crawling insects.

“Maybe.”

“Who?”

“Our old enemy.”

Moz leaned back, shocked. “So that chance encounter you told me about …”

“It was a chance encounter. But our mutual friend, Elizabeth – “

“Shit. You’re – you’re seeing him?” 

Neal nodded. “But it’s for a good and noble cause.”

“You’re personal enrichment, right?”

“No, not quite.”

Moz didn’t like the sound of that. “Are you going to tell me why you need the safe house?”

Neal tilted his head, the look on his face reminding Moz a little uncomfortably of a hawk contemplating a tasty field mouse. “I need to meet with an old _friend_.”

“I can hear the italics there, too. Do I know this friend?” He made air quotes around the last word.

“Not precisely.” Neal, whom Mozzie had well-schooled in the art of paranoia, pulled out a pen and wrote something on a napkin. He pushed it over to him.

Moz read it and blinked. And read it again. “Well, shit. I really need to think about which safe house I’m going to let you use. It’ll have to be February, my least favorite and the one that will be easiest to let go of. I’ll never be able to get the Fed cooties out of it.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Diana paced and worried. The U.S. Attorney was late, and she feared the worst. Deborah Tanaka was supposed to be here at one, it was close to two now. She reordered her notes, checked her watch, checked her email, checked the time again, and was about to call Tanaka’s office to find out where the hell the woman was, when there was a flurry of activity at the front of the office.

A woman of Japanese ancestry was flashing her badge at Rodney, the officer on the door. Diana stepped out of the conference room to meet her halfway. 

“Sorry – got called into a pre-trial conference just as I was leaving to come here.” She dumped her overstuffed briefcase on the table and flopped into a chair. “Now, what’s so urgent and so secretive that you couldn’t tell me what you needed over the phone?”

Diana had worked with this particular member of the Justice Department a handful of times over the last three years. She trusted her as much as she trusted anyone that wasn’t on her team. Which meant that she was probably honest, but Diana couldn’t be one hundred percent certain. Adler was smart, he probably had sleepers in every level of government, people who might not even realize they were getting paid to do something wrong.

But she was trusting Tanaka based on a conversation they once had, two years ago, celebrating the conviction of a journalist and a former member of the U.S. State Department who had looted a museum in Iraq. They had been talking about cultural patrimony – a sore spot for this woman.

_“Now – don’t get me wrong. We were the aggressors – “ Deborah waved her drink in an expansive gesture. “My grandfather used to talk about the glory of the Empire, the birthright of every Japanese man. We fucking bombed Pearl Harbor.”_

_Diana had said nothing._

_Deborah continued, “And you dropped the A-bomb, twice.”_

_“That was wrong. Maybe.” Diana replied._

_“Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know.” Deborah sighed. “But what I do know was wrong was what happened afterwards. MacArthur made a big deal about protecting the Japanese cultural heritage. But every citizen had to surrender their weapons, including their family’s hereditary arms. There was a sword that was passed down from father to son for seven generations. My grandfather was made to turn it in – just until the peace was settled. It was never returned to my family. It was taken by a GI who probably thought it would be a cool trophy to bring home.” She signaled the bartender for a refill. “Don’t get me wrong – we all loot and pillage and don’t you fucking mention Nanking – but it’s never right, it’s never justified.”_

.

“Do you know what the _Honjo Masamune_ is?”

Tanaka blinked and gave a disbelieving snort of laughter. “You’re kidding me right? Of course I know. It’s a Japanese National Treasure – missing since 1945.” She didn’t need to say that it had been stolen. “Don’t tell me you’ve found it.”

“Maybe.” Diana held up a hand, forestalling any comments. “What do you know about Vincent Adler?” She watched Tanaka closely. Her eyes went wide.

“You’re telling me that Vincent _fucking_ Adler has it?”

Diana considered and discarded a half-dozen answers before simply saying, “Yeah.”

“Now I see why you wouldn’t give me any details over the phone. Never know who’s listening.”

“Either you’re a really good actress, or I can trust you.”

“You can trust me.”

“But there _is_ someone in the U.S. Attorney’s office I can’t trust. Someone screwed the pooch when I tried to get warrants a few weeks ago. Got shut down from on high.”

Deborah nodded. “Not surprised. But I may have a judge I can trust. But I need evidence, real, hard evidence.”

“It’s taken me about a week to put this together, but I think you’ll have everything you need.” Diana opened the file. “I’ve got an affidavit from the sword’s last owner and a story so incredible you’d swear it came out of Hollywood.”

Diana relayed the tale she got from Neal, how his “friend” had approached Adler with the intent to have the sword returned to Japan, how it was handed over to a man he’d been told was Daichi Yoshida, the ambassador. She showed her the certificate Picah had been given, the pictures of Adler and the fake Ambassador, plus an affidavit from the real Ambassador that he had never met either Adler or Picah, and he’d never been given possession of the _nihontō_ – the Japanese sword.

Finally, there was the affidavit of an unnamed confidential informant who’d seen the sword in Adler’s possession and had heard Adler tell about the scam he ran on poor, unsuspecting Daniel Picah.

“Unbelievable. Adler’s been trading with rogue states, he’s been manipulating commodities markets, and we’re going to get him on – what – art theft? Fraud? What the hell are charges?”

Diana just laughed. “That’s your area of expertise, not mine.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

He liked to think of himself as a puppet master, controlling the fates of millions. Of course, he’d never admit to a grandiose a sentiment as that. But it was true. With a single command, he could send the price of gold or oil or orange juice skyrocketing (which he’d done) or plummeting (which he’d done, too). He controlled just about everything, except the weather. And that was something he was working on.

But he didn’t think of himself as an evil man. It wasn’t a game, and nothing he ever did was done out of spite or malice. Well, not when it came to business, because that was just money. His personal life; however, was a lot more nuanced.

Over the years, he had taken care to keep those lives separate. In fact, there were just two occasions when he’d been tempted to co-mingle those worlds. Neal, in his first incarnation as Nicholas Halden, had been too delicious to pass up. And Peter Cullinan, or more accurately, Peter Burke.

He regretted that somewhat quixotic offer to bring the man into his organization (he finally did have his prints run, and Peter's life was as dull and as ordinary as he had claimed), but only because the son of a bitch turned him down. There was something about Peter that wouldn’t let him be. Even now, weeks after he dismissed the man, _the whore,_ he couldn’t forget how he made him feel.

But no one got a second chance with him. He kept telling himself that, even as he had the man tailed, photographed, tracked like some felon on parole. Vincent knew every client Peter went out with, every man he fucked for money. But what he didn’t know was the man’s private life. His Yorkville apartment building was too secure and the watcher wasn’t being paid to do anything more than observe.

The whole thing rankled. He was done with Peter. It was over. Finished. So why the hell was he still obsessing? Vincent hated any sign of weakness in himself and this need was a weakness. The watcher had just emailed the day’s report and Adler deleted it without looking. But he didn’t empty the trash and he didn’t tell his watcher the job was over. He just went on to other, more gratifying subjects.

Like Neal Caffrey.

 _Resistance is futile._ He didn’t know where the expression came from, but he’d heard it used on occasion and thought it quite fitting. Neal was still trying to keep their relationship as seller and buyer, and he didn’t mind paying for his fucks, and maybe that was the best part of it. Chipping away at that independence, watching Neal come crawling back, week after week, abasing himself. Vincent relished and anticipated each of their encounters, the thrust and parry. Neal didn’t realize that he was on a very short lead, one that was being reeled in slowly. 

In a few weeks, it would be too late. Caffrey would be his and his alone.

Vincent’s phone chirped, signaling the arrival of a much anticipated email. Last week, when he decided that Neal was his, he put a watcher on him, with a larger brief – to dig into the details of Caffrey’s life. This was the first report.

  
**Subject** : Neal Caffrey  
 **Observation Period** : January 9 – January 10

Following commencement of observation, Subject was tracked to suspected residence at 52-17 79th Street, west of York Avenue, a pre-War building called “Ridgemont”. Discreet inquiries with the doorman provided the following information:

Subject resides in Apartment 7-C, moved in around mid-October last year. Apartment owned by Peter Burke, a long-term resident (since the early 1990s). Subject may or may not be in a romantic relationship with the apartment owner.

(Photographs attached).

During the observation period, between 10 AM and 12 PM, Subject was trailed to subway station, where he boarded the E Train heading downtown. Subject trailed to a building on Prince Street, which has been determined to be an art studio collective. On each of the observation days, Subject remained in his leased studio space for approximately four hours. Subject returned directly to his residence each afternoon.

Studio space was poorly secured (off-the-shelf doorknob lock and padlock/hasp combination) and access easily achieved. Subject appears to be an artist – painting and sculpture. 

(Photographs attached).

Surveillance will continue as directed.

Vincent picked up the tablet and smashed it against his desk. The glass screen fractured, but did not shatter. Coldly, deliberately he picked up a small bronze statue and hammered it into the tablet until there was nothing left but glass shards, cracked circuits and a twisted metal frame.

 _Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey_. The two whores were playing him.

Well, they’d get what’s coming to them and he’d enjoy every moment of their destruction.

Adler picked up his phone and called Elizabeth Mitchell. When he was finished with Peter and Neal, he’d start working on what price to extract for her betrayal. But for now, he needed her.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter woke slowly. These days, changing state from sleep to wakefulness was like a slow crescendo in some fabulous piece of music. He’d breath deep, his nose filled with the warm, scent of another man, sometimes accompanied by the spicy aroma of sweat and sex. Neal would be curled around him, clinging and sprawling at the same time. Peter never minded, Neal was right where he belonged, and while he took up eighty percent of the bed, that amount always included significant portions of Peter himself.

“Mmm, morning.” Neal was already awake and exploring, wrapping a warm palm around his hard cock. Peter liked being treated as an undiscovered country. It never got old.

“Morning.” He kissed Neal, who made a slight face. Peter wasn’t bothered; he knew his breath could slay dragons. Neal’s could knock over a T-Rex. And where his mouth was going, minty freshness wasn’t going to matter.

He had Neal writhing before long, licking his nipples, nipping and sucking, taking care not to pull small bruises to the surface. Peter drank the salt off his lover’s skin, drowning in the richness. He loved Neal’s smoothness, the perfection unmarred and perversely, he wanted to mark it, brand it with his ownership. The atavistic need was a goad to his desire, but Peter reined it in as he lightly set his teeth against Neal’s hipbone.

Neal bucked, seeking closer contact between Peter’s mouth and his cock, and Peter, never one to deny Neal anything, nosed his way south and licked him. Just a flick of the tongue, teasing. Neal’s cock twitched and he repeated the act. Neal whimpered, and Peter did it again, letting a bead of saliva drip down into the slit. 

“Fuck you, stop that.”

“Really?” Peter’s question was more of a laugh, his breath teasing the now-damp flesh. “You really want me to stop?” He licked Neal’s cock from balls to tip.

“Nooo, oh God, no.”

“You sure?” He gave the tip a quick suck and released it.

“Yes, please Peter.”

“Tell me. Tell me what you want.”

“Suck my cock, please suck my cock.”

“Hmmm, you do beg so nicely.” He opened his mouth and engulfed Neal, taking as much as he could without gagging. 

Neal didn’t last long, erupting into Peter’s mouth and he swallowed with relish. He loved the bitterness, the salt, the heat. And what he loved the most that this was something just between them. No client ever received this much intimacy, ever.

They showered and had their usual quick breakfast, though Neal kept studying him over his coffee cup until Peter became self-conscious. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Not nothing, you keep looking at me.”

“What’s wrong with having breakfast with a man you find incredibly sexy?”

“Nothing – I do that seven mornings a week.”

Neal just smiled and made it a point not to look at him. Or maybe he was – he now seemed fixated by his hands. Peter sighed. “What are your plans for today?”

“I was going to spend a few hours in my studio, then get some groceries for dinner. Thought I’d cook for us tonight. El was right when said that January was a slow month.”

“Yeah – things don’t pick up on the party circuit until February.” Peter was disappointed. It was Saturday, they were both free of commitments, and he’s hoped to spend the day with Neal. Maybe go to a museum, let Neal tell him all sorts of outrageous stories about the art on the walls. And if they couldn’t do that, he wanted to take Neal out – they rarely got the chance to go out together, especially on a Saturday, which was usually a work night. Something of his disappointment must have shown on his face. 

“I don’t have to go to my studio – can do that tomorrow. Wanna check out the new European Paintings Galleries at the Met?”

This is just what he loved about Neal – not only was he so easy to be with, he could read his mind.

“And dinner out afterwards?”

“To tell you the truth, I’d rather stay in tonight. Have sort of that post-holiday nesting syndrome.”

Peter never heard of that, but wasn’t going to call Neal on it. Besides, if Neal was giving up a day in his studio for him, he could pass on dinner out. “You’ll cook?”

“Absolutely.” 

He was an indifferent cook himself. His best dish was usually overcooked pot roast and Neal’s culinary expertise seemed just this side of magical.

That evening, after spending the day strolling hand in hand through the museum and afterwards, watching Neal cook, then eating Neal’s delicious soup and laughing as he got stuck with the dishes and Neal sat back with his sketchpad, Peter realized he needed to stop denying the essential truth of what was in front of him.

He loved Neal Caffrey.

The words burned on his tongue, sharp and bright like fine champagne. 

He didn’t say them.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Early Monday morning, Neal unlocked his studio door and shivered. The place was freezing and the landlord was a cheapskate with the heat. He went over to the radiator and fiddled with the valve. It gave a whoosh and a gurgle, some pipes creaked and within a few minutes, the heat started to rise.

With all of the paints and volatile chemicals around, there was no way he was going to risk a space heater. 

Waiting for the room to finish warming up, Neal took his sketchbook out and flipped to the latest set of drawings – a series of studies of Peter. His face, laughing, frowning, animated and at rest, all of the infinite expressions of the man he loved. And then there were dozens of sketches of his hands, so strong and capable. So filled with contradictions; well-kept but clearly the hands of a man once accustomed to using them. 

A few nights ago, when Neal was holding Peter’s hand up to the light – for no reason other than he wanted to (or so he told Peter) – he finally asked what happened to his middle finger.

“Remember, I told you about working on the Corvette?”

Neal had. “You got it caught in the transmission?” Neal really knew nothing about car mechanics, but it sounded good.

“No – the first time I took it out after finishing the rebuild, I slammed the door shut on my finger, got blood everywhere.”

Neal did his best not to laugh. “At least you didn’t lose it in an accounting accident.”

That comment had earned him a dirty look and an even dirtier kiss. Not that Neal minded either.

He pulled the drop cloth from the canvas he was working on and stepped back, considering the painting and thinking for of all his preference to paint _en plein air_ , this might actually be the piece that made him.

It was Peter, as he had been that Sunday afternoon in Lake George, sprawled on the bed, wearing just his briefs, a smile, an erection and one black sock. It was a big canvas, life-sized. He had toyed with a classical rendering, hyper-realistic in the style of Ingres or David, or maybe something more suggestive than detailed, Degas-like.

In the end, Neal settled on his own style, something that balanced the classical with the modern, and while the composition was as erotic as a Mapplethorpe photograph, he thought that the work was charged with the humanity of the subject. The vulnerability of a man aroused. The beauty of it.

Or it could be that Neal simply loved his subject and that love colored everything. Which wasn’t really such a bad thing.

Today he was going to work on Peter’s hands. So much of the painting was suggestion and shadow, but he wanted to give the hands all the detail he could. The hours passed, the music from his iPod repeated not once, but three times, a fourth and then a fifth, but Neal didn’t hear it, he was completely absorbed in his creation.

Finally satisfied, or at least satisfied for the moment, Neal stepped back and absorbed the new state of his creation. In the large scope of the canvas, the right hand took up such a small space – but it seemed to dominate the foreground. Staring at it, Neal realized that it needed one more detail. He picked up his finest brush and blended some paints. Three quick, sure strokes and there it was, a wedding band.

In the background, there was the suggestion of furniture, and Neal added another ring there, the viewer would know that this man, this god, was not alone. Never alone.

Putting down his palette, rinsing and drying his brushes, Neal laughed at himself. If he wasn’t careful, he’d become Pygmalion, too much in love with his own creation. No – that was not possible. He loved Peter with all the depth and breadth of his soul. He knew he always would.

_So tell him – what are you afraid of?_

_I don’t know._

What Neal did know that it was time to stop being a whore, to selling his body. He didn’t have to go back to the life, and he didn’t have to keep doing this. There was always a third way.

A knock at the door interrupted those thoughts. He covered the painting before going to answer the door. There were only two people who knew about his studio – Mozzie and Peter and neither man needed to see this canvas. 

Yet.

But it was neither Peter nor Mozzie at the door, and Neal was actually confused by the difference between his expectations and reality. Why was Vincent Adler standing there? And who were the two line-backer sized creatures behind him?

“Hello, Neal. Good to see you again.”

“What are you doing here? How did you find this place?” The answer to that was obvious – Neal had suspected that Adler was having him watched.

Adler didn’t wait for him to step aside; he just pushed his way into the studio. “I really am surprised, Neal. And that is quite a unique situation.”

“About what?” 

“A few things, actually. But first – you really do surprise me.”

Neal let out an annoyed sigh. “If you’re going to start that whole “natural whore” speech, you can save it. I’m not on the clock and I don’t want to listen to that crap.”

Adler laughed. “Oh, Neal. You _are_ such a whore. But that’s not what surprises me. It’s the art. I really didn’t think you had a creative bone in your body. Most forgers don’t. But this – this is magnificent.” He flung back the drop cloth covering the portrait of Peter.

Something dark and dangerous flickered on Adler’s face before a more genial and appreciative mask settled over it. “It’s even better than what I saw in the photographs.”

Neal kept his temper but his rage flared when he realized that Adler had his space invaded, stole his art, his creativity like he had every right to. “What the hell do you want?”

A thin smile twisted Adler’s lips. “Revenge.”

“For what? My attempt to rob you a decade ago? I thought you had already gotten your own form of justice. ‘Ancient lyre’ and a single dollar, right?”

“Neal – your pathetic attempts to steal money from me are nothing compared to your sins now.” Adler gestured and his two thugs grabbed Neal. “You’ve taken something far more precious, and I’m going to take it back, in small, exquisitely painful pieces.”

Adler tilted his head towards the canvas, and something clicked. “Peter? You think I took Peter from you?”

Adler didn’t answer, he pulled out a small bottle and a handkerchief from his coat. He struggled against the men holding him as Vincent dampened the cloth and pressed it over his face.

“Breathe deeply, Neal.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“I thought you said you’d agree to see Adler again?”

Peter sighed. He had. “I really don’t want to, Elizabeth. It’s just going to create problems.”

“He told me that he’ll stop seeing Neal when you resume your usual Wednesday night schedule.”

 _Good._ “But it’s Monday.” He felt an unexplained need to put up a token resistance.

“And he says he wants to clear the air with you tonight.” 

Peter wondered at the strain in Elizabeth’s voice. “What’s going on?”

“He’s putting a lot pressure on me, Peter. You know that I’ve been doing his foundation’s event for the last few years. It’s a huge part of my business for the first quarter and he’s threatening to pull it if I can’t get you to see him tonight.” 

“And when I see him and punch him in the face for threatening you like this?”

“Peter, don’t. Just – please, see him. He says that he really would prefer to see you than Neal. And you don’t want him involved with Neal – or has that changed?”

“No.” If anything, Peter’s determination to unwind Neal from Adler was even stronger. He should have realized that he’d use Elizabeth as leverage, though. “Okay – his apartment, tonight? What time?”

“Seven – he wants to have an early dinner. And Peter – “

“Don’t thank me, El.” He hung up and checked the time. It was a little after five and Neal should have been home an hour ago. Something didn’t feel right. He couldn’t pinpoint the feeling, other than an uneasiness in his gut. Neal was probably caught up in his work and Peter was reluctant to disturb him. He wanted him to realize that his art was the most important thing right now, more important than even their relationship. Neal had given up both Saturday and Sunday to spend with him and Peter couldn’t help but feel a little guilty about that. He shouldn’t let it bother him that Neal was working all day at his studio.

Everything with him and Neal was so new, so perfect, and he was so damn afraid of saying something that would ruin it. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Neal – far from it. Their relationship was unique, but he just didn’t trust himself not to get over-protective, over-bearing. Peter just didn’t trust himself not to drive Neal away. 

He sent Neal a short text, letting him know that El had given him a last minute appointment, and he’d see him when he got home. He got a reply a few minutes later, apologizing, he'd gotten caught up in his project and lost track of time. 

There was nothing out of the ordinary about Neal’s reply, but something still worried him. Something didn’t feel right and no matter how many times he looked at the text, he couldn’t figure out what made him so uneasy.

At seven, he presented himself at Adler’s apartment. He was usually greeted by the butler as he arrived, but there was no one at the door. Peter rang and waited, then rang again. Maybe it was possible that Elizabeth misunderstood, and this appointment wasn’t for tonight. About to leave, he heard footsteps and finally the door opened – by none other than Adler himself.

“Peter, come in.” Vincent gestured expansively. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I gave the help the night off.”

The alarm bells were sirens now and Peter wanted to back away. He didn’t. Instead, he swallowed his gorge and followed Vincent into the apartment. 

“Let me take your coat.”

“No – I’m not staying long.”

“Peter?”

“I only agreed to come here because you were threatening Elizabeth.” 

Adler’s smile got thinner and tighter. “I’m surprised she told you.”

“I don’t respond well to blackmail.”

“Too much of a man to bow to pressure? That’s not how I remember it.”

Peter ignored Adler’s attempt at insulting him. “I don’t understand why you are doing this. I wasn’t interested in an exclusive arrangement and you ended it. We were done. We should have stayed done.” Peter kept his hands shoved in his jacket pocket.

“You’re a whore -” 

“And yes, yes, we know how much you like whores. It’s enough, Vincent. It’s over, it’s done and it’s time you moved on.”

“Just like you have?” There was something terrible in Adler’s voice, a smug sense of glee.

“I was never stuck. I’m a whore, remember? You paid me for a service and then you decided that you didn’t want that service anymore.” Peter turned to leave. “We’re done.”

“No, I don’t think we are.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to wreck Elizabeth Mitchell’s business because of this?” Peter wondered what favors he’d need to call in to make sure she didn’t lose everything.

“Oh, destroying Ms. Mitchell’s little event planning and whoremongering business is going to be the least of her problems. But that’s after I get done with you, with Peter Burke.”

Peter blinked, not sure he heard what Adler said. “What?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb, Peter. I know all about you. And yes, you’re as boring as they come.”

“I don’t understand.”

Adler continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “You are a typical overachiever, constantly compensating for your sexuality. One failed relationship: David Lawrence, wanna-be Olympian fencer and all-around champion cock-sucker. He thought you were going to be his sugar daddy, his ticket to the big time. Pity he didn’t understand the value of monogamy. You found him in your own bed with another man, right? Both were so jacked up on Ecstasy that they wouldn’t stop fucking even when you walked in on them.”

Peter tried to play this cool; he didn’t want to let Adler get to him. “An early mistake, one that wasn’t repeated.”

“Interesting that you talk about mistakes – but that’s something we’ll get back to.” Vincent sat down, a predator at rest. “By the way, David says hello. Or he would if he could actually speak. He’s in nursing home with a big neon DNR on his medical orders. It seems that he dropped one too many tabs of E and fried his brain.”

Peter didn’t bother wasting time wondering how Adler found all this out, it didn’t matter. “So far, you haven’t said anything that interests me.”

“Well, then how does Neal Caffrey interest you?”

“What?”

“Neal Caffrey. Your apartment mate, your fellow whore. Your lover?”

Peter exploded. “You really want to know why I’m here, Vincent? Because I want you to stay away from Neal. You don’t need him. He doesn’t need you.”

“Ahh, that’s the spirit. You really don’t give a damn about Elizabeth Mitchell – you’re here because you don’t like me touching what’s you think is yours. You don’t want me to put my hands on the man you think you love.”

“Shut your mouth – you know nothing.”

“Oh, Peter, I know _everything._ ” Adler tossed a folder at him. 

Peter caught and opened it. There were pictures of them from this weekend, at the Metropolitan, walking home hand-in-hand. One caught at his heart – Neal was looking up. Peter remembered the moment so clearly. Neal had spotted one of New York’s famous hawks and was fascinated by the presence of wildlife in the middle of the city. Peter was more interested in watching Neal. The picture captured a moment when everything he felt was exposed to the world. “You are a sick and twisted bastard. I know what gets you off, I know what you do and I don’t want Neal caught up in that.”

“Oh, Peter. You don’t know the half of it.” Adler got up, went to the bar and poured himself a brandy. “Want one.”

Peter shook his head. 

“Your loss.”

He hoped that Vincent was only talking about the hundred year old cognac.

“It’s an interesting sensation, isn’t it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jealousy. I had never experienced it before. It’s almost empowering.”

“Like I said – you’re twisted.”

“Come, come – can’t you do better than that?” Adler finished his drink and put the glass down. “I think we were talking about mistakes.”

“You were, I was leaving.”

“No, actually, you are not. Not if you’re wise.”

Peter knew there was something terrible coming, something he had no way of stopping.

Alder smirked, as if he could read his thoughts. “Mistakes. The way I look at it, everybody gets one big mistake in life and one opportunity to fix it.”

“And my mistake? Was it turning you down?”

“At first, I thought so. But no – and we’ll get to your mistake. First, I want to tell you a story – it’s a little sordid, but I think you, being a whore, will appreciate it.”

“You really need to work on your vocabulary, Vincent.”

“That may be. I’ll have my secretary get me a thesaurus tomorrow. Anyway – my story. It all starts with a charity dinner I was hosting. A young man in a terrible suit approaches me and gives me a bottle of ‘82 Bordeaux. A bottle of ‘82 Pomérol Pétrus. Now, I have to wonder how this young man – little more than a boy, really, fresh out of college, wearing an off-the-rack suit and shoes that look like they came from a thrift store manages to get hold of an eleven thousand dollar bottle of wine. He even has the balls to switch the place cards for my dinner date – just so he could talk to me about some obscure point on the commodities market. Do you have any idea who this man was?”

Peter knew, he didn’t know how he knew, but he did. “Nick Halden.”

“Very good. They teach deductive reasoning in Harvard, right? Well, I took a shine to young Mr. Halden. You see, I like beautiful things, and I like smart people, and Nicholas was both. “

“Where is this going?”

“Patience, Peter. We’ll get there. As Nick tried to play me, I played him. Like a violin. He was so sweet and innocent, he worshipped me. I even considered keeping him – but it wasn’t to be. He was a brilliant fuck, so deliciously submissive. You know what one of my favorite games to play with him was?”

Peter shook his head.

“We’d go out – take the limo. I’d have him on his knees, my cock down his throat and he had to make me come before we arrived or I’d fire him. Or worse.” Adler massaged his dick, aroused by the memory. “Anyway, I digress. It didn’t take much effort to figure out that Nicholas Halden was actually Neal Caffrey, a petty grifter looking to steal from me.”

“I know all about Neal’s past. None of this makes a difference to me. You can’t turn me from him, towards you.”

“Ah, but I’m not trying to turn you against Neal. I’m trying to educate you, Peter. I was always impressed by your intelligence.”

“And here I thought it was the size of my dick and how I used it that impressed you.”

“You’re pushing it, Peter, and I don’t think you’ll care for the consequences if you push me too far.”

“Then, by all means, continue.”

Adler nodded. “I let Nick – or let’s call him Neal – work for me for six months. Six sweet months where I inflicted degradation after degradation on him. During the day, he was my feared Vice President of Acquisitions – and yes, that was the title of the job I offered to you – but at night, he was the perfect bitch. Nothing was too base, too humiliating. He needed, he wanted everything I had to give him. But in the end, he was going to betray me.”

Peter said nothing.

“Remember what I said about mistakes? How everyone is entitled to make one big one in their lives? Well, I believe in second chances. Rather than grind Neal into dust, I turned his little scheme back on him. When everything he had came from my hand, with a simple command, I took it all away. Neal was smart. He ran.”

“Not far enough, apparently.”

“I always knew where he was, I watched with great pleasure as he conned and stole his way across Europe. Did he ever tell you about Kate? She was supposed to be the grand love of his life. She lasted six months after I put a stop to his little game. She actually married one of Neal’s other lovers when Neal was in prison. Talk about twisted. I’ve never had the pleasure of fucking Matthew Keller, but I just might go look him up when I’m done with you. I understand he’s a bit of a sociopath.”

“That’s something you would have in common, it seems.”

“Keep pushing, Peter, and you will be sorry.”

“So, if Neal’s had his one chance with you, why are you seeing him again? What’s all of this about? Why are you even telling me this?”

“And here, I just complimented you on your intelligence. You can’t figure it out?”

Fear tore at him, a terrible realization that this evening wasn’t set up for any attempt at a reunion. “What have you done?”

“Come, let me show you. Then you’ll know just what your mistake was.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Pain, that was the constant in his universe right now. White hot streaks of fire along his back, the slow, throbbing of muscles cramping, the ache from the abuse to his genitals. But the pain wasn’t what was unbearable, pain could always be endured. He learned that at the hands of the master – who just spent the last few hours reminding him just how much he could take without breaking.

No, what was unbearable was knowing that his life was going to end with silence.

With cowardice.

All Neal could think was how foolish he was not to tell Peter that he loved him. That he would be honored to spend the rest of his life with him, the days and the nights. The good and bad and everything in between. In sickness, in health, in joy and in sorrow.

His breath caught at the last – those were the words he never dreamed he’d want to speak, and now at the end, the chance to speak them was stolen.

Even more than this lost chance was the crushing pain of everything that he was leaving behind in his silence. Peter would never know the joy that he was loved, freely, wholly. Here, now, at the end, Neal couldn’t make any sense of his reasons for keeping silent. It wasn’t that he was unsure – of himself, of his love. It was …

Fear.

Of rejection. Of Peter giving him a smile, nodding and then slowly pulling away. He’d never be the one to end things, but they would end. 

But what if Peter didn’t reject him? What if Peter returned his feelings? What if he loved him. That possibility, as always, warmed him. Why – before this – did it seem so impossible for Peter to feel the same?

_Because you spent half of your life as a criminal, because you know that given the right circumstances, you’ll go back to the life. You know that if the going got to hard, all you had to do was hope on a plane. Because you always believed that working for Elizabeth was just a stop along the way. Until you fell in love and realized that there was no place else you wanted to be._

Self-knowledge always came at a price, and sometimes it came too late.

Everything hurt, worse now than before. Time became irrelevant – it felt like minutes, it could have been hours. He had come to, bound and struggling. Hands – too many of them – holding him down, inflicting damage. The rape almost didn’t matter. It wasn’t like Adler hadn’t done this to him before, and despite his threats, he wasn’t going to share him with those thugs. 

In fact, Adler dismissed them. Then he brought out the whip. Neal endured.

And he endured the repeated invasion of his body, trying not to scream as flesh tore under the abuse. Finally, when it was almost beyond his endurance, Alder pulled out, shoved something hard into his anus and left.

It was becoming too much of a struggle to stay awake. It would be so easy to drift along on the pain, on his memories, on the pleasure of his failed hopes and shattered dreams. To just go.

_“I don’t understand why you are doing this. I wasn’t interested in an exclusive arrangement and you ended it. We were done. We should have stayed done.”_

Peter? Was that Peter’s voice? How?

 

And Adler’s response, _“You’re a whore – ”_

Neal tried to laugh, but it hurt too much. His tormentor had no originality. And then he realized that Peter was here, in the apartment. Vincent had planned this, he had set Peter up and was going to destroy them both.

For the first time, Neal struggled against his bonds, too weak, too damaged to break free. This had to stop, Peter had to get out of here. He couldn’t scream, he couldn’t move. All he could do was listen. Adler unrolling his life, describing his willing degradation in exquisite detail. Peter was hearing everything, but he didn’t seem to care.

Not that it mattered. Neal knew how this night was going to end.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Adler led him towards the master bedroom. “Have you figured out what your mistake was, Peter?”

He knew, and that knowledge was bitter. “Caring for someone else.”

“Yes. My faith in your intelligence is rewarded.”

“You’re a cold, greedy bastard. You want everything - you want to own everything. And what you can’t have, you’ll destroy.”

“A little melodramatic, but an accurate assessment.” Adler shrugged and unlocked the bedroom door.

His worst fears were realized. Bruised and bleeding, bound like an animal. Peter ran to him and knelt by the edge of the bed. A small part of him was surprised that Adler didn’t move to stop him. His hand shook as he touched Neal, pushing the sweat-soaked curls from his forehead. “Oh, God, Neal. Oh, God, no. ”

Neal looked at him, eyes blinking, almost vacant, but after a few seconds, a ghost of a smile curved his lips. “Peter…” Just two syllables, barely audible, but invested with so much hope.

He placed a soft kiss on Neal’s brow and stood up. He was going to tear Adler to pieces for this.

“How charming. The lovers are reunited for one last time.”

“You’re a dead man.” Peter lunged at Adler, who just laughed and pulled a gun. 

“No, I think you’re the dead man. You and Neal. But the question is, how are you going to die?” He pointed the gun at Peter’s head. “Don’t think that I don’t know how to use this. You won’t be the first man I’ve killed.”

“Why – why are you doing this?”

“I told you – revenge.”

“No – this isn’t revenge.” Peter kept looking back at Neal. “This is sadism.”

“Fine, call it whatever you’d like. But Neal’s fate rests on you.”

Peter looked back at Adler, startled. 

“Oh, don’t think that I’m actually going to let you go. Neal – I can trust his silence. He could have sold me out when he was arrested. He could have traded up and gotten a huge ‘get out of jail free’ card by just mentioning my name. But he was a good boy and kept his mouth shut.” Vincent reached down and dragged the gun across Neal’s bloodied back.

Neal gasped, but didn’t cry out from the pain. Adler smiled.

“He kept his mouth shut for four years, even though I arranged for him to go to one of the hardest, meanest prisons in the country. I was surprised he survived so well.”

Neal finally made a sound, like a startled bird. 

“My poor, naïve boy, you didn’t know? You didn’t realize that was why you weren’t shipped off to Club Fed in Otisville?” 

Peter shook with rage, but kept an eagle eye on Adler’s gun hand, hoping for even the smallest window of opportunity to get the gun away from him.

But it didn’t come. Adler pointed it back at Peter. “You - your silence isn’t guaranteed at all. You might be willing to fuck for money, but you’re just a boy scout at heart, Captain America in disguise. There’s no way I could let you live.”

“So why haven’t you killed me yet?”

“Because of your entertainment value.”

“What?” This wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting.

“Before you die, I want to see you fall. I want to see you degrade yourself for Neal. I want to see just how far you’ll go to save your lover pain.”

Peter started to charge at Adler, but was again brought up short by the gun. 

“If you don’t want to play along, I can kill you now. And I’ll make be quick for you. A single bullet between your eyes. But Neal, he’s going to suffer. Endlessly. I’ll start by breaking his hands. I’ll shatter every bone until there’s nothing left but useless bags of flesh. Then I’ll move to his feet. When I’m done, I’ll call in my guards and they’ll rape him, over and over again, and they won’t be nice. Not like me.”

Peter didn’t know if he believed that Adler would do what he threatened, but he had to play this out. “And if I do agree to your sick games, then what?”

“One bullet in Neal, one bullet in you. You’ll die together, like Romeo and Juliet. Or Bonny and Clyde. But it’s your decision and the clock’s ticking.”

Peter did the unthinkable, he turned his back on Adler and again knelt down by Neal. His hands were trembling as he cupped his lover’s head and leaned close. “Neal, can you hold on?” He didn’t know if Neal was even able to answer. 

“Peter …” Neal’s voice was thready, fading. “Have to tell you something.”

He pressed his ear to Neal’s lips. 

“Love you. Love you always. No matter what. Do what you need to do.”

Peter’s heart broke, he closed his eyes and the tears came, scalding. He turned his head and whispered in Neal’s ear. “I love you, too. Always. Forever.” And the last, because he knew that if there was even the slightest chance to save Neal a moment’s pain, he’d take it, even if it meant playing to Adler’s tune, “Forgive me.”

“Well?” Adler’s sneering tone refocused Peter’s attention. “Have you two lovebirds made up your mind?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“For starters, open the night table drawer. You’ll find a bottle in there.” Adler flicked the gun in the general direction.

Peter was puzzled until he retrieved the bottle. “Why am I not surprised that you need chemical help.”

“Oh, the Viagra’s not for me, I don’t need it, but I suspect that you will.” He looked over at Neal. “Somehow, I think that in this situation, you just might have trouble getting it up, even though your boy’s life is on the line.”

Peter closed his eyes and shook his head. “No.”

“Remember what I told you about mistakes? You’re all out of chances, Peter.” Adler picked something up from the bed. It was a whip. He brought it down hard on Neal’s back before shoving it up his ass. Neal screamed, the sound loud and thin. “Take the pill, Peter.”

He did.

“Good, now take out your cock. I want to see you get hard.”

It didn’t take long for the drug to work, but his arousal disgusted him. He had a terrible feeling that he knew what Adler was going to want him to do. And he was right.

“Fuck him, Peter. Fuck the man you love. Make him scream. Come on.” Adler gestured with the gun for him to walk around, to look at Neal.

He was almost sick. The inside of Neal’s thighs had been whipped raw, his testicles and penis tied with leather straps, so tight that they were obscenely swollen. His anus was bloody and his buttocks and lower back were scored with whip marks and bruised with handprints.

“I – I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t? You really want Neal to suffer? Where’s the spirit of shared sacrifice?”

Peter looked at Adler, the man’s eyes were cold, his smile mocking. He wasn’t getting off on the sex, but the perversion of everything decent.

“Peter, it’s okay.” Neal’s whisper was barely audible.

“You see – Neal’s forgiven you. He _loves_ you, and doesn’t love make everything right?” The derision in Adler’s voice was a palpable thing.

“No – it’s not okay. You’re a sick and twisted fuck – ”

Adler struck him with the gun, sending him reeling. “And you’re a pathetic bastard standing there with your dick hanging out!”

Peter watched as Adler started to squeeze the trigger. 

“I’ll kill you, Peter. I’ll regret it, but I’ll kill you and then I’ll take your precious Neal Caffrey apart, piece by piece.”

Peter didn’t doubt that Adler would do it, and he couldn’t condemn Neal to another moment of pain. “His mouth, I’ll take his mouth.”

“Good, good. That’s the type of creative thinking I admire.” 

Adler had left Neal’s face alone, but Peter didn’t think that was going to last. His mind conjured all sorts of horrors. He fixed the image of Neal in his mind as he remembered it from this morning, a sleepy smile, eyes half-closed, a flush across his cheeks, lips still pink from the prior night’s kisses. He was going to take that memory to his grave.

Peter cupped Neal’s jaw, thumbs resting again his cheeks, sweeping away the tears. “Shh, it will all be over soon.”

Neal nodded and opened his mouth. Peter rested his cock on Neal’s dry lips and thrust slowly, carefully.

“You really need to put some life into it, Peter.” Adler moved next to him. “I want you to hurt him, to take him like you’ve taken me. Maybe I have to give you some incentive.”

Peter didn’t listen, he didn’t obey. Adler was standing behind him, pulling his own pants down, forcing Peter forward, forcing his cock deeper into Neal’s throat. He had an arm wrapped around Peters’ waist and Peter could feel the hot, heavy mass of the man’s dick between his buttocks and the cold weight of the gun barrel against his temple.

“Better, much better.”

There was a noise, no – disembodied voices shouting and it sounded like someone banging from the outside.

Adler was distracted, the gun moved away from his head and Peter thrust an elbow into his gut, breaking free. But he didn’t knock the gun from Adler’s hand. Instead of retreating, Peter charged and grabbed at Adler’s arm. The wrestled with the gun, and while Peter had the advantage of height and reach and mass, Adler kicked him in the groin, momentarily disabling him.

And then Vincent shot him. Twice.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Three fucking days.

That’s how long it took to get the warrants for Vincent Adler’s office, his home, his phone and email and text messages. 

Three days of waiting for the judge to wade through the paperwork, the supporting documentation. Three days of waiting to find out that she was going to be shut down again. That Adler had reached out and strangled this attempt like all of the others. Three days of waiting to find out that her career was over.

But instead, she got a bunch of papers with a judge’s signature and the go-ahead from Hughes and Bancroft to take the bastard down. Hard.

Clinton was on point with her, and they were backed up by a team of experienced agents. Hughes himself was running the operation from the van. All of this might have been a little overkill for serving search warrants and looking for stolen art, but Caffrey’s intel on Adler made caution the by-word. For all he was a seemingly mild-mannered blue blood, there were quite a few unexplained disappearances and deaths surrounding Vincent Adler. An assistant drowned, a vice president committed suicide, a worker in his apartment killed during the installation of a security system – suffocation apparently. 

And then there was the registered handgun.

So, no one way taking any chances – it was body armor for the entire point team. Diana had minimal expectations, however. Adler was a smart freak, and it was still possible that he’d get away with everything. They had to do this by the book. 

Which was why, at nine PM on a Monday night, when surveillance had confirmed that Adler was in his apartment, they were about to execute what might just be the most important operation of her career.

“Vincent Adler? Open up, this is the FBI.”

There was no answer.

Diana repeated the command, and they waited. And even though it wasn’t necessary, she called out for a third time and still no reply.

She was about to give the signal to break down the door when she heard a very distinctive popping noise.

“Those were gunshots, break it down, _now!_ ”

Clinton was on his radio, signaling for an ambulance. As soon as the door was down – it took several hits with the battering ram before giving way, they went in with guns drawn. The living room was clear and they spread out into a search pattern, half the team right, the other half left. She took the central hallway that, according to the building plans, lead back to the master bedroom suite. Clinton was beside her, gun drawn, and they burst into the bedroom.

Days later, when she was making her report to the Justice Department, Diana still had trouble describing what she found.

Vincent Adler was half-naked, aroused and holding a gun. There was a man on the floor with a bullet wound in his chest and another through his thigh. He wasn’t naked but his genitals were exposed. It wasn’t _this_ tableau that was hard to explain, it was what was on the bed.

Her eyes weren’t making sense of it. It was a man covered blood and bruises from the waist down. He looked like he’d been flayed. There was something – a whip – protruding from his anus and there were bloody streaks down his thighs. The man’s hands were tied, his fingers swollen and almost purple from the bindings.

But it was his eyes – they were the worst thing of all. Pale, brilliant blue, rimmed by almost impossibly long lashes, staring. She knew those eyes. It was Neal Caffrey on the bed.

Diana took all of this in just a second, maybe two.

Clinton, behind her, shouted at Adler. “Put the gun down. Get on your knees.”

Adler looked distracted – eyes flicking over to the man on the floor, to Neal Caffrey on the bed, to a point over the bed. Diana followed his gaze. There was a tiny green light glowing from a hole in the woodwork. Whatever happened here had been recorded.

Clinton repeated his command and Diana echoed it. Instead of complying, Adler raised his gun and she did just what her training required her to do. She shot him. Two bullets, right in the heart.

Vincent Adler was dead before he hit the floor.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Epilogue – Eight Months Later**

The boat rocked as the waves lapped against the hull. The day was near perfect, the sky an endless blue, populated by a few drifting clouds. There was a light breeze, just enough to send the boat drifting if not for the anchor. Neal didn’t care – he didn’t mind letting the wind take him where it would. Today he was as light as a feather, a leaf, one of those clouds.

He liked the sun, this sky, the scent of the salt and sea filling his head like the most exotic perfume. He liked the roughness of the canvas under his hand, the way the light glinted off the polished brass fittings, the lacquered wood rail, the creak of the hull against the water.

All these sensations reminded him that he was alive. 

And even more than the sight and sound and taste and touch of this day, the man next to him was the most profound reminder of them all. 

“I think you’ve caught something.” Peter pointed out as his fishing rod bowed towards the water. 

It took some effort, but he reeled in his catch, a decent sized bluefish. “What do you think?”

“Dinner tonight?” Peter looked dubious.

“Nah. Not in the mood.” He eased the hook out and let the creature wriggle and flip out of his arms, back into the glistening waters.

Peter laughed. “I’m beginning to wonder if we shouldn’t even bother with this. It’s not like either of us have kept any of our catches.”

Neal laughed, what Peter said was true. “Fishing doesn’t need to have a purpose.”

“No, I guess not.” The breeze picked up, sending the boat rocking a bit harder. Peter asked, “Wanna head in?”

“Mmm, I don’t think so. Not for a while yet.” Still, Neal packed away the fishing gear. “I’m fine doing nothing.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Task completed, he stretched out on the deck chair, feet resting on the small sailboat’s railing. He closed his eyes and drank in the late afternoon sun, as indolent as a cat. Neal knew that Peter worried about him. He worried about Peter, too. Without opening his eyes, he reached out for Peter’s hand and took it. This was always the way it should be, Peter always beside him, always within reach.

Peter squeezed his hand, and lifted it. Neal felt his breath across the back of his fingers, then the softness of a kiss, warming the cool metal wedding band on his ring finger. 

Neal turned his head and looked at Peter, drinking him in the way he consumed the air and the light and the peace of this afternoon. He spoke, because the words were always necessary.

“I love you.”

Peter looked at him, his smile sweet, his eyes serene. “And I love you.”

They said these words to each other every day. And every day, they got better.

_Fin_


End file.
